extremely random irondad one-shots
by hailingstars
Summary: A collection of Irondad/Spiderson one-shots. Six: Peter gets bullied by his teacher, Mr. Westcott, after correcting him in class, and it quickly turns into something more sinister. Tony and May are not fans of this. Eight: Peter is homesick at college and Morgan's pet fish dies.
1. Something Nefarious

A/N: Hey, so this is the first one of many Irondad one-shots I want to post. I'm going to try and update this with a new week at least once a week. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Peter gets beat up by May's new boyfriend, because May's new boyfriend is Doc Ock and Peter is nosey. Tony just wants to work on a car with his Spidey son and send him off to college in one piece.

* * *

Peter stared at the car parts scattered across the floor. He tried to remember enough to start assembling, or to at least make a little bit of progress before Mr. Stark looked away from whatever he was working on and saw no changes were made. It was useless. He couldn't concentrate. Not on that. Not during that particular moment.

His thoughts belonged elsewhere, anywhere else, actually, but mostly not there. On the car. Completing the car meant completing a lie, or more importantly, led Peter closer to the moment he'd have to confess to Mr. Stark that he wouldn't be attending MIT in the fall and therefore wouldn't need this particular graduation present.

Peter had trouble deciding what would upset Mr. Stark more, his choice of school or that attending NYU rendered his gift useless.

"Every college man needs a car," he had told him, then proceeded to try and rush off to get him a brand-new Audi. Peter's lucky to have both May and Pepper. They were there to force him into a compromise.

May picked out some rundown car at a junk lot, and Mr. Stark would help him fix it up.

This compromise meant every Saturday that summer belonged to the workshop. He didn't mind that part. Spending time with Mr. Stark was one of his favorite things to do. Especially there, in the workshop, where new Iron Man suits were born. If Peter were really going away to Massachusetts for school next fall, which he definitely wasn't, he would miss him, almost as much as May.

The thought crossed his mind that he might end up missing Mr. Stark after all. Peter isn't completely above pretending to be at MIT while he really hung around New York. It sounded a lot better and like a lot less drama than giving him the bad news.

"You were right," said Mr. Stark. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he stood over where Peter worked, or pretended to work, on the floor. "Clearly you don't need my help."

"I didn't," he said, then frowned. "I don't. I'm just… distracted."

Mr. Stark's raised eyebrow demanded an answer.

"…Umm," said Peter. He picked the first non-college thought that popped into his head. "Well Aunt May has this new boyfriend."

"And you hate him."

"Well, yeah."

"Sounds about right," said Mr. Stark, with a sigh, as Peter checked his phone.

"Oh shit," he said, and struggled to get to his feet. He sprinted to the other side of the workshop, grabbed his bookbag from the floor, then sprinted back to Mr. Stark. "I'm going to be late. I'm supposed to be meeting him tonight."

He waited for the blow to come. A sarcastic comment. An ill-received joke. Peter prepared to defend himself for hating the man without ever meeting him, but the blow never came. This is something that, maybe, Mr. Stark understood, too. Peter didn't need a reason to dislike any of May's boyfriends, although he felt like he had plenty from overheard bits of conversations on the phone.

His name was reason enough. Doctor Otto.

Peter looked up once he adjusted the strap of his bookbag, and followed Mr. Stark's gaze over to the car, if it could even be called a car at that point, sitting in the middle of the room.

"At this rate it's never gonna be finished by fall."

"Sorry Mr. Stark," said Peter. "I'll come back tomorrow?"

"Nope, tomorrow I'm spending the day with Pepper," he said, then pointed at him. "Next Saturday I'm helping you, and cut it out with the Mr. Stark, alright? I told you. It's Tony. You're an adult now. Use your big boy words."

"Sure thing, Mr. Stark."

Peter was almost out the door when he heard Mr. Stark grumble, "Smartass."

* * *

He was, as predicted, late for dinner. He opened the apartment door to one of the most traumatizing sights he'd ever seen in his eighteen years of life. May and Doctor Otto were standing uncomfortably close, but worse of all, they were breaking apart, as if they'd been closer, as if they'd been kissing.

His eyes settled over the man, but Peter's feet stayed planted in the foyer, letting the door fall shut behind him. Doctor Otto was tall, with dark hair and fit. His button up shirt stuck too close to his skin, but that wasn't the most unsettling observation Peter made that night. It was the look in his eyes. Possibly, it was the same look Peter gave him as he sized him up, as the both of them were making up their minds about each other there in his aunt's apartment.

The apartment they used to share with his uncle Ben.

"You must be Peter," said Otto. He broke out of the kitchen and started across the apartment towards him.

"Obviously."

Otto looked taken back for a half-second, then quickly recovered and pretended he hadn't heard the tone. Behind him, May glared and mouthed at him to be nice.

"I'm Otto," he said. His grip was loose and flimsy, like a fish out of water or a man who's trying too hard to pretend to be unassuming. Peter knew better than to fall for that. "May told me so much about you."

"Really?" said Peter. "I haven't heard very much about you at all actually…"

" _Peter,"_ said May, marching across the kitchen and joining them in the foyer. She stood by Otto, on his side, and hooked her arm through his. "He's joking." She looked at Peter. "You're joking, but the joke's over now."

The couple walked back into the kitchen, arms still linked, and Peter swallowed misplaced stomach acid. His feet felt like dead weights as he followed them to the kitchen table. He didn't know how he would make it through dinner without puking, but he should at least try it. He should at least try to be polite even if Otto made his skin crawl and his stomach turn, just so May wouldn't kill him once he left. If he ever left.

He looked so comfortable on May's side of the dinner table, where Ben used to sit, Peter wasn't so sure they would ever get rid of him.

He stayed polite by keeping his responses as short as possible. He nodded when he could, he forced himself to smile, and occasionally, would make a noise that implied he was paying attention and actually, he was. Otto went on and on about his research with radioactive substances, maybe trying to impress him, but after spending so much time with Mr. Stark, it was hard to be impressed by someone so mediocre.

"I've heard you're pretty into science yourself," said Otto. There was a stray lasagna noodle hanging on his chin, and Peter had a hard time looking anywhere else. "I'll have to get your opinion on my work sometime."

"Oh," said Peter. He looked down at his plate and pushed a few noodles around with his fork. "I doubt I would have the time for that. I intern for Mr. Stark, and he keeps me pretty busy."

May narrowed her eyes at Peter, who stared right back. Otto was her boyfriend. It didn't mean he was obligated to spend time with him.

"I'm sure he does," said Otto, and Peter smiled for the first time since coming home, enjoying the bit of jealousy laced into his voice.

That night, Peter laid in bed and stared at his ceiling. The more his brain turned and turned and turned with all that talking about radioactive substances, about wanting to work with them, about AIs that would allow him to do it, the more it didn't sound right. AIs were dangerous in the wrong hands. Peter didn't think they should be trusted in the same hands that had trouble keeping food on his plate or in his mouth.

He didn't sleep until he resolved to start an investigation, and to not give it up until he found something so incriminating May would break up with him.

Peter had a simple plan.

He set his alarm early, at least for an otherwise lazy Sunday morning, and stayed in his room. He pretended to be asleep until he heard the shower water running. He slipped out of bed and made his footsteps light as he crept into May's bedroom. Her phone sat on the nightstand, and once in his hands, it was an easy hack. Something so simple and learned so easily by spending enough time around Mr. Stark, who was quick to teach Peter anything he wanted to know. He scrolled with his thumb until he found Otto's contact information, grinning when he finally came across what he'd been looking for, an address.

He sent it to his phone, wiped the message history and returned it to its original position on the nightstand.

By the time May came out of the bathroom, Peter sat at the kitchen table, watching YouTube videos on his phone and eating a bowl of cereal. The empty box laid sideways on the table.

"Good morning, May," he said, as she walked past him.

She headed to the coffee pot, or at least she had started in that direction. She backtracked several steps to stand in the kitchen entryway, observing him with her hands on her hips, until Peter was forced to acknowledge her.

"No."

"No to what?"

"To whatever you're up to," she said. "I know that look, and I know what it means."

"But I'm not even doing anything."

"Does what you're not doing have anything to do with Otto, by any chance?" she asked. Peter blinked at her, and she pulled on her we're-about-to-have-a-serious-discussion face while she pulled out the chair next to him. "Did you know all those nights you spend going off, having your little Avengers missions, I sit here in this kitchen, by myself, worrying to death about you? Every single time. It never gets less scary, but it always ends the same way. Do you know how?"

"Umm…" said Peter. He had a feeling he knew, but he felt like answering would be walking into a trap.

"With you coming through that door complaining," she said. "Mr. Stark is so over-protective. He's paranoid! He won't let me anything –"

"-My voice isn't that high."

"The point," said May. "Is that you are doing the same thing, with me, now."

Peter dropped his spoon, and looked at her, really looked at her. She made a good point. He hated that, because this situation was clearly different. Relationships were definitely more dangerous than his missions with the Avengers.

"I miss Ben too, but I have to start dating again sometime, you know?"

"I know," said Peter. "Does it have to be this guy, though?"

May rolled her eyes, stood up and headed to her beloved coffee pot. "Give him a chance, Peter."

"Okay."

It wasn't a complete lie. Peter would give him a chance, just as soon as he investigated and only if he couldn't find anything on him. He hoped he would. His aunt deserved someone better than the idiot who talked only about himself all evening with a noodle hanging off his chin.

* * *

His investigation started later on that same day.

Peter sat cross-legged on the top of Otto's apartment building while he ate his dinner, a slightly cold sandwich from Delmar's. He picked it up on the way over, with the intention of being able to eat it when he got home, but this stake-out was taking longer than he expected. It only served to prove Peter's suspicions. Otto was up to something nefarious. Obviously. There was no other reason for him to be away from his apartment all day long when he told May he was spending the day grocery shopping and doing laundry.

He waited hours on that rooftop, watching the city below him and listening to all its sounds, only to finally tire out and head back home empty handed. Without any evidence. He hadn't been entirely sure what he expected to find there, anyway.

Peter crawled through his bedroom window, then heard it. He ditched his suit for regular clothes and discovered the reason Otto hadn't returned home to his apartment. He was here. On the couch with May. Watching a movie with his arm around her.

"Oh hey, Peter," said May. She paused the movie, and both pairs of eyes stared him down. "I didn't know you were home. Do you want to watch this with us?"

"He probably doesn't have the time," said Otto. It was lighthearted, but it grated at Peter's nerves.

He dismissed himself. Politely. He could foreign politeness just as well as Otto could pretend to be meek.

Peter paced in his room. Back and forth, back and forth, thinking fast and frantic. He stopped when his thoughts did, when his he lifted his head from staring at the floor and his eyes fell over to his desk drawer. A new idea, like a spark, sent him barreling to his knees in front of the drawer. He yanked it open and searched through it, pulling out papers and graded homework from years before as it did.

But it was useless. They were all gone. A tracker would have been perfect, would have done his job for him, but they weren't anymore left. Not in his drawer, or in his suit.

There was one more option but asking Mr. Stark for more trackers invited his questions. He collapsed on his bed, realizing he didn't have much of a choice, and put his scheme against Otto off until Saturday.

It rolled around fast, and Mr. Stark hadn't been kidding when he told him he'd be helping him this time around. Within five minutes of his arrival at the workshop, the two of them were side-by-side, shoulders nearly touching, face-up underneath the frame of the car. He passed him tools, explained to him what did what, and what to screw and where. It was almost like having a dad again, and it pushed Otto and the tracker to the very back of his brain.

He just wanted to enjoy the moment.

But when there wasn't May and her boyfriend to worry about, his mind reverted back to worrying over the moment he confessed to Mr. Stark MIT wasn't happening.

Thinking about not going ached like regret. He wasn't just disappointing Mr. Stark, but himself. As fall got closer and closer, he realized more and more MIT was the perfect place for him. He didn't understand how Mr. Stark knew that long before Peter, but none of it mattered. It didn't change anything. He still couldn't go.

He already declined the offer, and there were two very good reasons that went into that decision. The first was Queens. His city still needed Spider-Man. The second was more important. He couldn't leave May. Who else would investigate and stalk her boyfriends, or eat Thai food on the couch while watching trash reality TV?

A nudge on his shoulder broke him out of his thoughts.

"Let's take a break," said Mr. Stark. They both scooted out from under the car and sat up. Mr. Stark threw a rag at him. Peter used it immediately, wiping off the black smudges he felt on his cheeks, then his hands. "How's the situation with May and the new boyfriend?"

"His name is Otto," said Peter. "He's a tool."

"Otto, huh? No wonder why you don't like him," Mr. Stark stood and walked over to a stool where his phone sat, leaving Peter to sit on the floor, using his hands as props to support the rest of his body.

Peter stared at the back of Mr. Stark's head while he strolled through his phone. He figured it was now or never. To ask about those trackers, not for the college confession. He still had a couple of weeks until he would need to disclose that information, and he planned to procrastinate as long as possible. He found his voice, though it wavered when his request was said out loud, causing Mr. Stark to turn around and look away from the phone in his hand.

"Why? What for?"

"To track… someone," said Peter.

Mr. Stark tilted his head at him. Forget being trapped under buildings. He was eighteen years old and one look from him turned him back into a guilty first-grader. It ruled out the possible scheme of pretending to be in Massachusetts in the fall. He'd never be able to pull that off.

"I got that," he said. "Who?"

"No one important."

He made a face like he didn't believe him but walked away and returned with a handful of the tiny trackers despite his unanswered questions. He passed them to Peter, who had to stand to collect them. He shoved them in the smallest pocket of his bookbag.

"So, what is it this time?" he asked. "Man who thinks he's a bird? Another lizard guy?"

"Nothing that like."

He made the same face. It was every bit pinched as it was disbelieving, as if there were questions beating down a wall in his mind. Old Mr. Stark didn't have that wall. He wouldn't sat him down and demanded to know exactly what the trackers were used for. New Mr. Stark, who was inspired either by Pepper or a therapist, maybe both, let it go. He asked questions. He pried, but he didn't stop him from making his own mistakes.

Sometimes Peter missed the old version. He felt less guilty about lying to helicopter Mr. Stark.

"If you're ever in over your head," he said. He twirled a screw-driver in his hand. "I'm just a phone call away."

Peter looked at him, really looked at him and saw the scruff, dirt and grime instead of the billionaire wearing a suit and sunglasses. It was the workshop effect. Everything became a little more real, a little more transparent under the grease and dust, and under the dim lighting, Mr. Stark was just someone who worried too much about the people he loved.

And also, someone who was getting better and better at heaping on the guilt without even trying to do it.

* * *

The golden opportunity to put a tracker on Otto presented itself later on that same evening. Him and May were close on the couch, in their usual positions, as Peter stomped through the living room, still covered in the grease and dust of the workshop and swallowing another bout of stomach acid. They didn't notice him, so he didn't even try to be discrete when he slipped a tracker inside the seams of Otto's coat.

He shouldn't have left it out in the open like that. Just hanging on a kitchen chair.

After that, all he needed to do was wait, and he didn't even have to do that for very long.

Otto excused himself from their movie night unusually early. As soon as Peter heard the apartment door shut, he pulled his mask on and watched the blue dot which represented Otto move across the map. It didn't go to the dodgy apartment building where he lived. It went to the labs where he worked. Awfully late to be going to work. Unless that was his angle. To access the lab when the rest of the employees weren't around and couldn't see what he was doing.

Only one way to find out.

He suited up and followed the beacon to the labs. He was done pretending to be polite, so slamming through one of the windows and shattering glass everywhere as he tumbled into the building didn't seem like an imposition. No alarm sounded, either, which was an added bonus.

The last thing he needed was for him to be tipped off about Spider-Man's arrival.

He followed faint noises to find Otto, and when he got to the room he was in, he crawled up the wall and stuck to the ceiling, watching upside down as Otto maneuvered around the lab, unaware of his presence. Nothing seemed special. Nothing seemed to catch Peter's eyes, until Otto walked over to a place in the lab he wouldn't have known to look if he hadn't gone over there.

He strapped himself into a harness, and from that harness, gained four new arms. Mechanical ones, with claws at the ends of them, and they were snapping. It concerned Peter that all four of them were extending upward, in his direction, but in retrospect it probably should've concerned him a little bit more. It just took one sudden movement, one metal tentacle shooting up fast and abrupt inches from where Peter hung to send him somersaulting to the ground.

He stuck the landing with his shoulders stuck out for balance, and looked up, looked into the eyes of Otto Octavius and saw the same something nefarious he saw the first time he met him. Granted, it was hard to take seriously with four mechanical claws floating around and snapping at him.

"What are you supposed to be?" asked Peter. Maybe Mr. Stark wasn't too far off with his guesses that had to do with animals. "An octopus?"

"Glad you could finally find the time to join me, Peter."

"Wait, what –"

"You're really not that great at keeping secrets," said Otto. His eyes drifted off to the equipment to his left, then back to Peter. "So, I'm sure you'll understand this isn't personal. I just can't have you running off and telling Iron Man about all this."

It was over before it started. While Peter was busy looking at all the things Otto didn't want to Mr. Stark to find out about. He didn't know what they were, or what they did, or why it would mean trouble for him if Iron Man discovered it, but that didn't stop him from attacking.

Fast and abrupt just like the first time. He managed to dodge the first, but the second caught him in his belly and swatted him against the wall. He crashed to the floor, awkward and ungraceful, and thanks to his upgraded hearing, could hear the bone in his leg snapping before he even felt it. But the pain did come and distracted him from the third metal arm that lifted him up and pinned him against the wall.

It was Otto's real hands that punched him, hit him hard in the stomach, on the face, but all Peter felt was the pain in his leg. He kept his focus there when the punching stopped, when Otto's hands came up around his neck and cut off his air supply.

He was about to get killed by a man who couldn't eat without getting food on his face.

That's when he heard it. The gloriously familiar sound Iron Man made when he hovered, followed by his voice.

"Get your grubby tentacles off my kid, kraken."

Peter was dropped to the floor, on his pitifully broken leg, but he felt better than fine. For all the aches and pains, even the stabbing one in his leg, he knew this was a fight that wouldn't last long, either. There was no stomach acid as he watched Otto attempt to smack Iron Man around with those ridiculous metal arms. Mr. Stark wasn't distracted, was ready for it and simply blasted him away with his repulsor beam. He flew across the room, crashed into the wall the same way Peter had and thudded to the floor.

Mr. Stark wasn't done, though, even if Otto was no longer in any condition to fight. He didn't stop until every single one of the metal arms were disbanded, snapped in half or otherwise disposed, and it isn't until Otto is knocked unconscious that Mr. Stark lands next to Peter.

"Mr. Ssstark –" said Peter. "I - I didn't call."

"Yeah, well, you're just lucky you weren't the only one tracking someone tonight, kid," he said. He kneeled down next to him. "What's the damage?"

"Leg's broken."

He felt the pain then, all at once, as if saying it out loud made it present. He gasped, and Mr. Stark winced. He turned his head, leveled another glare at Otto, and for a second, Peter thought he might go back over there, kick him while he's down and unconscious, but the moment passed. Mr. Stark wrapped his arm around Peter's shoulder's, and very carefully, put his other arm under his legs, eventually scooping him off the ground.

Any energy he usually would have spent protesting being carried is focused towards the pain radiating throughout his body. He shut his eyes and hoped to pass out while they went soaring into the night's sky.

* * *

They put him on painkillers.

Mr. Stark's medical team were quick about that one, and the drugs were fast. They were both speedy and strong. He didn't remember much about the process of having his leg set and casted, but he did remember voices murmuring up above him. He couldn't quite hold on to them, but they were talking, amazed, about his healing abilities. It would take just a couple of days for his leg to be back to normal, and less than that for the bruises to disappear.

Until then, however, he was laid up on Mr. Stark's couch. His leg was propped up, in a blue cast and there were lots of pillows supporting his back, so he could sit up without effort. Everything came back into focus. The blurriness in his head cleared up as the pain started to trickle back in. Then he remembered.

He had just one concern.

"I need to call May," said Peter, and to his shock, a voice answered back.

"Already done."

He slowly, carefully, turned his head and saw Mr. Stark in the recliner, staring at him.

"Don't worry," he told him. "I broke the news to her about the octopus, too."

"Is he –"

"-He's alive," said Mr. Stark. "Uh, he just won't be doing very much for a while, and he definitely won't be calling your aunt back."

Relief flooded through muscles that should've ached. Mission accomplished, but it didn't feel as good as he thought it would. It sort of sucked, actually. That May started dating again just to get stuck with Otto. That her happiness got delayed again. It only served to reinforce his already made-up about staying in the city for school.

He looked at Mr. Stark. It was the perfect time for the truth about college. While he was drugged out and the consequences didn't seem as bad, and while he was bruised and broken to the point Mr. Stark would feel guilty if he started to yell.

"I have to tell you something," said Peter.

Mr. Stark looked up from his phone and didn't miss a beat. "I already know you think you're not going to MIT, Peter."

Maybe it was still the drugs, but he didn't quite catch what was said, or at least the implication behind what was said.

"W-what?"

"You're a terrible liar," he said. "And I knew you would end up getting cold feet, so I paid someone at the admissions office to keep an eye out for your acceptance status. When you declined, idiot move by the way, I just had the evidence destroyed and sent in the deposit for your first semester instead."

It was said so simply. As if it were completely normal behavior to employ spies at a university, and as if semesters at MIT were cheap. This was helicopter Mr. Stark. He never really left. He just tried to change during the moments that really mattered, or the ones that didn't. Peter couldn't figure out which way it went, but either way, he felt the only appropriate reaction was anger. Only as much anger as the medication would allow, though.

He still felt pretty fuzzy.

"…you can't just do that," said Peter. "You can't just accept on my behalf and force me to go."

"Sure I can, I already did." said Mr. Stark. He leaned back in the recliner. "Tell me that you really don't want to go. Convince me, and I'll pull my deposit and put it towards a school closer to home."

Peter didn't say anything. He couldn't. He, apparently, wasn't capable of lying even without the drugs, so he didn't see a point in trying. All that was left was the truth.

"I can't leave May, or Queens."

"Your aunt is more than capable of protecting herself," said Mr. Stark. "And you know she wouldn't want you to sit out of college her behalf. She would never forgive herself, and besides, I'll still be here."

"Spider-Man –"

"-will take a break."

Peter didn't attempt anymore arguments. There wasn't any Mr. Stark wouldn't easily counter, and there wasn't any energy left in him to try it. He was going to MIT in the fall. It was inevitable now, and different, because he could blame Mr. Stark for it every time he felt like it was selfish. It was a better gift than paying his tuition, really. That he could go to the college he wanted and push all the guilt on Mr. Stark for manipulating the situation.

He'd still feel bad about leaving Aunt May, of course, but he figured Mr. Stark was right. She would feel bad if he didn't go, and he'd end up feeling terrible either way.

The conversation was officially over, so Mr. Stark provided him with more painkillers, a cold-pack for his swelling eyes, a glass of water and a demand for him to get some rest. The pills made him sleep, and when he woke up, he felt better. Still hurt, but better than the night before. Well enough even to get up and try to move around on the crutches.

He found Mr. Stark in the workshop and stopped, sudden and shocked, at the shiny car sitting in the middle of the room.

"Mr. Stark," said Peter. He leaned on the crutches, putting his full weight there instead of his good leg. "How long was I asleep?"

"Just the night," said Mr. Stark. "And half the day. Why?"

"What is that?"

"Your car," he said. "Don't you recognize it?"

"No. This… this can't be the same car."

The car they'd be working on was rusty and falling apart despite all their effort. This one looked new and fast.

"Maybe I put some custom parts in it," he said. There were a few seconds of silence. "Maybe I put a lot of custom parts in it."

"May's going to flip."

"She's not going to be thrilled about those bruises, either, genius, but I figured it'll be better if we get it over with all at the same time."

Peter nodded, and Mr. Stark was correct. She wasn't thrilled with his broken leg, or his black-eyes and bruises. He had returned to the couch in the penthouse living room when she arrived. She sat next to him, looking him over, and apologized.

"I should've known," she said. "I'm so sorry, Peter."

Hearing her apologize hurt worse than any of his injuries. This one was Peter's fault. Otto turned out to be crazy only by chance. He only stumbled into some scheme he didn't even understand, and next time, he knew that wouldn't be the case. That eventually May would date someone normal, who wasn't Ben, and he'd have to accept that, from miles away in Massachusetts.

Thanks to Mr. Stark's meddling he didn't have much time left in Queens. Just a few weeks.

"I'm sorry too," said Peter. "I promise I won't go all Mr. Stark on you next time you date someone… unless there really is –"

May narrowed her eyes.

"I promise I won't stalk your next boyfriend."

"That's all I can ask for," said May. She looked around the big, empty living room. "Where's Tony? He said he had something to show me…"

Peter happily directed her to the workshop, happy for once someone else was in trouble and not him. That he had nothing to do with the under authorized upgrades on his graduation present. He watched her disappeared into the elevator, preferring the couch over front seats to seeing May berate Mr. Stark about the car. He needed the rest to heal, and anyway, he was pretty sure he'd be able to hear the shouting that he knew was coming.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading!


	2. Retro Man

Summary: Tony isn't impressed with his son's latest obsession, a fictional superhero named Retro Man. He's even less impressed when the actor of said character refuses to give Peter an autograph.

* * *

Retro Man

"Watch out!"

Tony ducked and listened as a foam bullet with a deadly plastic tip went whizzing by his head. It hit the wall with a force, then fell to the floor, completely zapped of its momentum. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, suppressing a groan when he saw the familiar emblem of Retro Man stenciled into the side. If he never saw another Retro Man themed piece of merchandise again, if he never heard that idiotic theme song blasting from his son's tablet again, he'd be a happy man.

He stepped into Peter's bedroom. It might as well be an altar of the god Retro Man, a place of worship for the cult of children watching with their eyes glued to the screens. There were posters, there were bedsheets, there were toys and action figures, and they were everywhere.

Peter stood on his bed. He had ridiculous replica of Captain America's shield in one hand and the Retro Man gun in the other. The absence of Iron Man merch didn't go unnoticed, and it made Tony hate the fictional superhero even more.

He tossed the foam bullet back at Peter.

"Sorry dad," said Peter as he caught it. "I didn't know you were standing there."

"And I didn't know you'd be awake," said Tony. He looked around the room. Toys everywhere, and the worst kind, Retro Man toys. "Where did you get all this stuff?"

"Uncle Rhodey."

Leave it to Rhodey to gift Peter with the very stuff that drove Tony crazy.

"And just so you know," said Peter. "If this were really Retro Man's laser-gun, you'd be fried if it hit you. His gun – "

"-can cut through anything. Yes, I've heard. Only about five thousand times."

It didn't seem to matter to Peter that Stark Industries was capable of that technology and more, or even that his Iron Man armor could take a blast from lasers like that. Tony didn't care what the shitty writers of that god-awful show said. If Retro Man were real, which he definitely was not, he wouldn't be able to beat Iron Man in a fight, despite the claims of internet trolls and commercials attempting to sell toys to children.

That idea was ridiculous and unrealistic and it gave Tony a migraine. It almost made Tony wish he were real just, so he could prove the world wrong. But just almost. Somethings just weren't worth it.

Once or twice he tried to explain to Peter that he made lasers. He could show him about a dozen different models of laser-guns, but the boy simply blinked back at him, then recounted the episode where Retro Man saved New York from the aliens while Tony dug his fingernails into the palm of his hands.

Changing the subject was usually the only way to go.

"Guess what we're doing today."

"Ummm," said Peter. "Seeing ducks in the park?"

"No," said Tony. "Better. We're eating lunch with Ms. Potts."

"Really?" asked Peter. Tony nodded. "Awesome!"

He jumped off the bed, and landed with a thud, then ditched both the shield and the gun, tossing them to the floor with the rest of the mess. Later they'd have to have an argument about picking his toys, but for now, Tony just watched him as he disappeared into his closet and dug his fingernails into the palm of his hands. Pepper was another person Peter liked more than him, and it was Tony who drove her away.

* * *

Tony didn't have a reservation, but him and Peter were seated immediately, anyway. Being a Stark meant ignoring normal protocols like calling ahead and dress codes. Peter felt more comfortable in jeans and t-shirts, so that's what they both wore. Anyone who would judge him for that one obviously never tried to force an eight-year-old into a suit jacket just for lunch.

He picked his battles. It was one of his first rules of parenting. A fight over clothes just wasn't worth the energy he'd have to waste and the whining he'd have to endure, and it's something Howard would never allow. That was another rule. A more important one. He thought of what Howard would do, then did the exact opposite.

"I want a chocolate shake, please," said Peter, to the waitress, who arrived to take their drink order.

Tony open his mouth to crush the kid's dreams, to let the restaurant be the bad guy buy explaining this isn't the sort of place that serves milkshakes, but Peter had too much charm and the waitress was too quick with her answer.

She smiled at him and said, "It's coming right up."

A milkshake before lunch. Another battle Tony had no interest fighting.

It came out from the kitchen looking lumpy and obviously homemade, but the kid didn't notice. He sipped on it while he read his first-edition, hardcover Retro Man comic book. Tony has had many fantasies involving the destruction of that book, by fire, by his repulsor beam, by simply tossing it out of the window of his car as they drove over a bridge, but at that moment, he didn't mind it. It kept Peter quiet and entertained, so he could go through his emails before Pepper arrive, so he could at least pretend they were meeting for Stark Industries business, like she believed they were.

She arrived late, and with a fury that told him she was onto his scheme. Pepper had her work bag over one shoulder, a series of papers in one hand and a scowl on her face as she marched up to the table. She thumped the papers down on the table in front of Tony and set a pen on top of them.

"Sign."

Peter looked up from his book and tossed it aside at the sound of her voice.

"Pepper!" He scurried out from his chair, ran around the small table and wrapped his arms around her. Most of that fury disappeared from her presence as she hugged him back. He was Tony's perfect little wing man, without really meaning to be.

"Hi, Peter. Are you keeping your dad in line?"

"Uh huh," said Peter. "But he reeeaaally misses you. I do, too."

"I miss you, too."

She gave Peter one last backrub before he walked to his chair and sat down. He didn't bother picking his book back up, though. He kept his eyes trained on Pepper, as if he were afraid she'd disappear, while Pepper's eyes shifted back over to Tony.

"Sign the paper," she told him, again.

He didn't make any movement towards the pen.

"I figured we could talk about it more over lunch," said Tony. "This is your favorite spot, right? Do you still like –"

"-I don't have time for this," said Pepper. "And I don't have time for lunch. Sign the paper, Tony, so I can do my job."

"But," said Peter. "Dad said we were all eating together."

Peter brought out the eyes. The big brown puppy dog eyes. It was his greatest weapon, and it was hard for anyone to say no once they were employed. Pepper exhaled, sat down and when she looked away from Tony, when she looked at Peter, she pulled on a warm smile. Tony wasn't even jealous it wasn't for him. He didn't blame her. He didn't deserve to be smiled at, but Peter deserved all the smiles he got.

"I guess I can make some time," she told him.

Peter grinned and went back to happily drinking his milkshake through a straw.

The atmosphere was cordial after that. The waitress came, she took their orders, and she left. Pepper went back to explaining what Tony's signature on these papers would mean for Stark Industries. Cordially, but not without irritation. She has explained it many times to him already, through many emails and through many attempts to get his signature electronically.

"I don't understand why you're being so stubborn about this," said Pepper. "These changes are good for the company."

"Cause he likes it when you harass him about stuff," said Peter. He turned a page in that dreaded comic book, and both adults turned to look at him. He shrugged. "What? It's so obvious."

Pepper smiled, but this time it didn't disappear when she looked at Tony. It was getting back to normal, back to how meals would go when things were how they were supposed to be and they were all a family.

That's when it happened.

Tony tried to ignore it at first. The tugging on his sleeve.

He was practicing active listening while Pepper told him a story that had nothing to do with Stark Industries. He didn't want to ruin it, didn't want the ship to sink before it officially set sail again.

But then there was another tug, harder this time, and it was accompanied with an urgent whisper, " _Dad."_

"What?"

Peter extended his arm across the table. "That's Retro Man."

Across the room an obnoxious man with sunglasses clasped over his shirt collar was being seated. There were two women with him, and it reminded Tony of Tony-from-the-past. The Tony who wasn't a father and in love with Pepper.

"Can we go get his autograph?" He was still whispering. Completely in awe.

"Sure, you can go," said Tony. He smirked at Pepper. "Got a pen?"

She narrowed her eyes but handed over the pen.

"I can't believe you brought him here today," said Pepper, once Peter was out of earshot. Her tone was soft and forgiving but also accusing, all at the same time. "That you're putting him in the middle of this."

"He missed you."

"That isn't why you brought him," said Pepper. She didn't need to state the reason out loud. They both knew Peter came to lunch with a job, and that it was to get Pepper to sit down with them. "You're confusing him. He's going to get ideas about us getting back together."

"He isn't the only one getting those ideas."

Tony's eyes flickered away from Pepper as Peter walked back to the table with his head hung and without any of the excited energy he usually possessed. He placed the pen on the table in front of Pepper, then sat in his chair. He put the comic book off to the side, picked up his napkin and started tearing it to bits.

"Uh, hey buddy," said Tony. "Did you get your autograph?"

"No."

"No?"

There was something in his chest whirling, gaining momentum and one look over at Retro Man's table it spun into something mighty and destructive. Something that needed to be unleashed. It was an instinct. Anyone who made his son look the way he looked at that moment, sad and dejected, deserved death. Especially obnoxious actors who played obnoxious superheroes for children's shows when they weren't even good with kids.

"But it's okay," said Peter. He moved the comic book even further to the side of the table. No longer interested. "I shouldn't have bothered him during his free time."

" _What?"_

His voice was low and that was dangerous but Peter was still young and innocent and didn't have any idea what that particular tone meant. Pepper did.

"Tony," said Pepper, deliberately slow and deliberately calm, as if she were trying to talk sense into a crazed dog. "There are grown-up ways to handle this."

Tony didn't want to hear about what's rational and sensible. He put up with too much from Retro Man. He endured the theme song every morning while Peter ate breakfast. He listened to Peter talk endlessly about episodes, managing to mask his irritation and replace it with interest that would seem genuine to a kid. But this was too far. This was it. The very last push to send him over the edge. He hoped to express his true feelings about Retro Man with his fists.

He sprung from the chair with a force that left it rocking, almost tipping over on its back legs, and marched across the room oozing the same fury Pepper entered with. He stood in front of his table, but Retro Man was too important to acknowledge Iron Man, the real-life superhero, so the first words belonged to Tony.

"Hey asshole," said Tony. The actor looked up, saw Tony, then looked back down at his phone. Something Tony-of-the-past would never have to do to flex his importance. "Is there a reason you were rude to my kid?"

"Wasn't rude," he said. He scrolled through his Instagram feed, and Tony dug his fingernails into his palm. "Just told him how it is. People pay to stand in line for my autograph, why should I give it away for free? On my day off? So, you get it, right? Maybe he's a little sensitive for his age."

Tony released a breath. There was no way any of Pepper's grown-up solutions would work on this guy, and besides that, Tony didn't want them to. He couldn't see past it, could not get himself to look anywhere else other than that smug bastard's face. That same stupid face that has invaded his home via Netflix.

"You know, you're right," said Tony. "I don't know what I was thinking. We could do a trade. Let me upgrade your phone with the latest… Stark software, and you can sign my son's book."

Retro Man looked up from his phone for the first time, then looked Tony up and down. "Yeah… yeah, that sounds okay."

He handed him the phone, and Tony immediately dropped it to the floor and crushed it under his foot. It was almost as satisfying as imagining throwing the comic book out of the car window.

"What the hell, man?" Retro Man jumped on his feet fast, just like Tony expected he would, and it was just the opportunity he wanted to create. He didn't waste it. He punched him. Hard, and he was sent back into his chair.

Tony never lighter as he walked back to his family. It was better than all his fantasies about laying waste to all Peter's Retro Man's merchandise, and more importantly, there was light in Peter's eyes again. He stayed quiet as Tony sat down, but he knew it was only because they were both waiting for Pepper's reaction. For her to say it was okay for it to be funny.

She didn't laugh, but she did accept it.

"I guess that way works, too," said Pepper, and smiled, and that time it was for both of them.

* * *

Sleep didn't come easy that night.

Tony tossed and turned. He wrestled with his blankets, and he wrestled with his thoughts, with the day's parental missteps. He didn't know what he was thinking. Of course Pepper was right, of course he shouldn't be using Peter as bait to reel her in. It wasn't fair to either of them, and only he could be so blind to do something like that in the first place.

This morning he was patting himself on the back for not being like Howard. Now he was convinced he was screwing Peter up in his own, special way.

He turned again and jumped with shock when he saw his son standing by his bedside, staring at him.

"Dad…" he said. "I… I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you tonight?"

Peter didn't look the way Peter typically looked when he had a nightmare, and he was getting a little old to sleep in Tony's bed. It was also something Howard would never allow, if Tony had ever been brave enough to ask. He never was. He always stayed in his bed and sweat out his fears by himself. Lonely, and scared.

"Yeah of course, bud," said Tony. He lifted up the covers, and Peter crawled in. By himself. Without the plushie he usually carried around at bedtime. "No Retro Man tonight?"

"Never meet your heroes, dad," said Peter. He adjusted his head on the pillow. "Besides I have you."

Peter used this opportunity, while Tony's heart was swelling, to snuggle closer and rob him of his personal space. The kid had charm, and after his arrival, sleep came easy.

* * *

A/N: So, I'll end this one by saying most actors are lovely people who deserve privacy, and I have no idea where this story came from, but there it is.

Thanks so much for reading!


	3. The Actual Grinch

The Actual Grinch

Peter never meant to bother Mr. Stark on Christmas Eve, but Spider-Man business didn't pause for the holidays. He didn't mind. He welcomed the distraction, and fortunately for him, Mr. Stark's help also didn't acknowledge holidays. He needed his expertise. More importantly, he needed his technology. It'd been a long time since he had a working computer, or the time and motivation to fix his broken one.

Not that it mattered much.

This was something only Mr. Stark pull could off.

He didn't bother wiping the snow from his feet as he took the elevator directly down to the workshop. His shoes squeak when they treaded across the uncarpeted floor, and the noise got Mr. Stark's attention. His head popped up from a complicated mess of electronics and wires spread out across the table. Peter eyed it, all the parts, but couldn't make any sense of it.

"Don't you ever take a break? For Christmas?" asked Peter.

"If I did," said Mr. Stark. "You'd be out of luck."

Peter rolled his eyes. This looked like more than a quick mission before Christmas day. This looked like the intention to work through the holidays and ignore them completely. He gestured at him to follow when he abandoned his worktable and moved to one of the many computers.

"So, who're we looking for?"

"The actual Grinch," said Peter. Mr. Stark gave him a look, so he elaborated. "This asshole broke into my neighbor's apartment and stole all their Christmas presents. They can't afford to buy anything else, you know, things are rough around the holidays. Plus, they had one of those skateboards."

"One of those skateboards?" Mr. Stark repeated.

"Yeah, one of those Red Rocking Horse skateboards all the kids are going crazy for. It's limited edition, and sold out everywhere, except people selling it for like, three hundred dollars on Ebay just because they can."

Mr. Stark looked at him long and hard and didn't even have the decency to hide his amusement. "I will never understand how you put yourself in the middle of these situations that have nothing to do with you."

"I'm the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man," said Peter. "It's my _job_ to put myself in the middle of these situations. Besides, I've known this girl, Sam, since she was born, and if she doesn't get anything for Christmas, she'll stop believing in Santa. She's almost at that age, you know?" Peter made an inching motion with his fingers. "She's this close."

It was Mr. Stark's turn to roll his eyes.

"She has to accept reality sometime," he said. "Maybe you should just tell her."

Peter couldn't read him, couldn't tell if he was goading him on to get him worked up in his story, or if he were really that disconnected from the Christmas spirit. He couldn't tell, so he decided to take him seriously.

"Don't be a Grinch," said Peter. "Just help me find this guy, so I can get the presents back and Sam gets a Christmas."

Mr. Stark eyed him like he knew, like he saw right past him and knew this was a distraction. A noble one, but still a distraction from all the thoughts and holiday feelings he didn't want to deal with.

"Alright, let's get this over with."

"Check the security camera at the gas station on 4th and Michigan," said Peter.

He was past his initial trepidation about Mr. Stark being able to hack into any security camera in the city, or anywhere ever, probably. He was just thankful it was Mr. Stark wielding this power, and not someone else, or they all might be living in a 1984 nightmare world. After the sound of typing and clicking, the security footage was pulled onto the screen.

"Would've been between seven and eight PM."

Mr. Stark backtracked through the footage until they got to the right time frame, then slowed it down. At first there was nothing, but after a minute or two, a guy wearing all black rushed down the street with a garbage bag filled, Peter guessed, with all of Sam's presents.

"That's him," said Peter. It had to be.

Mr. Stark paused the video, drew a square around the man's face and zoomed in. With just a couple of clicks from the mouse, a box filled with information popped up on the screen. The thief's name, with his address and phone number. There were other bits of information too, but Peter didn't care about that. He snapped a picture of the information he needed with his phone and was ready to bolt.

The faster he got the presents back, the better.

"Wait," said Mr. Stark, and Peter stopped in his tracks, his hand hovering near the button that called the elevator. Mr. Stark's eyes were still on the screen, but eventually they hit Peter with a serious look. "Are you sure you wanna do this? Stealing stolen presents is still stealing from kids."

Peter frowned. He hadn't thought about it that way, but it didn't matter. Taking the presents back was the right thing to do. It wasn't Peter's fault those kids' father was a thief, and Sam shouldn't have to suffer for it, either.

"Yeah," said Peter. He pushed the button for the elevator and tried not to think about what Mr. Stark read on the screen.

* * *

The Grinch's neighborhood was a quiet place, and Peter could hear nothing except the thin layer of snow crunching under his converse as he walked the sidewalk. Little white flecks were everywhere, dancing and simmering, covering the bare trees. It was the sort of neighborhood were every house was decked out with colorful lights, with projections of snowflakes and Santa's sleigh, and with blue shining icicles hanging from rooftops.

Not the sort of neighborhood he would expect to find a thief, and the lowliest of thieves at that.

When he found the correct address, he looked around, and when he saw the street was deserted, pulled on his mask. Only his mask. The decorations were impeccable on that house, too and it only made Peter's drive for justice stronger, his determination to recover Sam's skateboard stayed bright.

Until he peaked inside the family's window. They were huddled up together on the couch, just the thief and his two kids. Ripped wrapping paper, the kind that used to conceal Sam's presents, lay on the floor. The toys, even the treasured skateboard, was abandoned on the floor too, as they family flipped through a photo album together on the couch.

A family member was missing.

There was no way of knowing for sure, but Peter could just… sense it. Last Christmas Peter and May had been huddled together looking at pictures, too and this Christmas, he was out here in the snow avoiding it.

His eyes returned to the already opened presents. These kids were clearly past believing in Santa, and it made him realize, the only Grinch here was grief.

He turned, retreated back down the driveway, pulled his mask back off and headed home, sad and empty-handed. Without a single thought to distract him.

* * *

May knew something was bothering him, but she left it alone. It was typical for one or both of them to get down during the holidays since Ben died. Specials days just made them remember how much he loved to laugh, how much he loved the holidays because it meant extra time to spend together as a family. Now it just reminded them they were one Parker short.

It was just the two of them, alone together, drinking hot chocolate, silently, in front of the TV while a Christmas movie played.

Peter didn't know which one. He wasn't paying attention.

His mind was split between two different miseries, grief for Ben and his failure to recover Sam's Christmas presents. In retrospect, it was a lose/lose situation from the start. If he had taken the presents back, he'd be sunk into the couch feeling bad about the thief's kids. Mr. Stark had tried to warn him. He should really learn to start listening.

A knock on the door caused Peter and May to look at each other.

"Are you expecting someone?" asked May.

"No," said Peter. "I'll get it, though."

He forced himself up from the couch, walked across the apartment floor and bent down to peer through the peephole. On the other side of the door stood Mr. Stark and Pepper Potts. Both of them carried giant shopping bags, and Tony had The Present tucked between his arm and the side of his chest.

The Red Rocking Horse skateboard.

Peter couldn't get the door unlocked and opened fast enough.

"Mr. Stark?" he asked. "Ms. Potts… what are you –"

"-It's rude to leave your guests stranded in the hall, Pete," said Mr. Stark.

He bumped past Peter and strolled into the apartment, with Pepper following behind him. He heard her apologize to May showing up without calling ahead. He heard May stand from the couch and tell her it's no big deal, they are always welcome. Peter stayed, for just a few more seconds, staring at the wall in the apartment's hallway, before finally letting the door fell shut and hesitantly joining them.

Peter knew what this was. It was Iron Man to rescue, even if it meant playing Santa on Christmas Eve instead of spending time alone with Pepper.

"Mr. Stark –"

"-No, none of that," he said. He put the bags on the living floor and handed Peter the skateboard. He didn't need to ask how he got the holiday's hottest toy hours before Christmas. He was Mr. Stark. Peter just reached out, and took it, admiring the shiny red paint. "Don't thank us just yet. You two are gonna have to help us wrap all these."

That sounded great. It sounded a lot better than returning to his depressing mood.

May put on a pot of coffee, that got mixed with hot cocoa, and they all spread out around the coffee table with giant mugs, scissors, tape, boxes of toys, and multiple rolls of wrapping paper. Mr. Stark was lousy at the actual wrapping process. He got banned from helping by a frustrated Pepper. It didn't help their progress. Mr. Stark spent his time attempting to stick bows on Pepper, and when she banned him from that too, resorted to sticking them on Peter.

He plopped one on the top of Peter's head, and Peter ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to get it off without ripping the hairs off his head.

"Aww leave it there," said May. "It reminds me of when you were little… Wait, I think I have a picture…"

"Aunt May no," said Peter, but his protest didn't do any good. As it turned out, the only activity to amuse Mr. Stark more than messing around with wrapping bows was making fun of Peter's baby pictures, and once all the wrapping was finished, it was all the adults wanted to do.

Peter laid down on the floor in absolute mortification. This was really happening. His aunt was really showing his baby pictures to Iron Man and his fiancée. Then May laughed, and Peter realized it wasn't all bad. Before there was just silence and memories, and now there was cheer. Even if it was happening at his expense, he couldn't really complain.

* * *

"You know, Mr. Stark," said Peter. He stood outside his neighbor's door in the empty and quiet hall of the apartment building. One foot was propped against the wall, and the other stood strong next to a stack of neatly wrapped Christmas presents. The skateboard sat separately and remained unwrapped. "I really have no idea how you get yourself involved in situations that have nothing to do with you."

He was bent over, with one kneel planted on the floor, picking the neighbor's locked with one of May's hair pins. "It's important to you, so of course it has something to do with me."

Something stung at his eyes, and he wiped them with the sleeve of his hoodie before Mr. Stark noticed. It got quiet. Just their breathing and the sound of the hair pin clanking against lock filled the hall, and there were so many thoughts to occupy the space silence created. Most of them belonged to Ben. His absence was always louder on holidays, but it was nice to have Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts to endure the noise with him and May.

It was better than a distraction.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That I wouldn't take the presents back."

"You're not that hard to read, kid," said Mr. Stark. The door came open with a click, and he frowned. "Remind me to set you and your aunt up with a security system…"

That didn't sound like something Peter wanted to do. He still remembered what a disaster it'd been last time Mr. Stark thought something in their apartment needed upgrading. There had been no winners in that situation. He wasn't brave enough to admit this out loud, so he just nodded while Mr. Stark loaded the stack of presents into his arms.

The skateboard was hooked on Peter's right arm, and nearly caused him to lose balance, the present tower threatening to tumble to the floor.

"You're not coming in with me?"

"My part is done," said Mr. Stark. He took the Spider-Man mask from the floor and pulled it over Peter's face. "You get to deliver them. You're my Spider-Elf."

"That doesn't make any sense. Santa delivers –"

"Life doesn't make sense."

He made a face, and frowned at him from under the mask, before very carefully turning around and facing the door while Mr. Stark held it open with his foot.

Peter crept into the apartment. It felt strange evading their home like this, even if it was to give something instead of take. The weird, awkward feeling stayed with him as he arranged presents under a tree glowing with white and blue lights. He put the skateboard down last, organized the whole display so it was the focal point and the first present she would see on Christmas morning.

He took a few steps backwards and admired his work. Santa had come, and Christmas was saved, thanks to a little help from Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts.

"Spider-Man?"

 _Shit._ Peter turned on his heel and saw Sam standing in the living room, her hands on her hips and her short hair sticking out of a backwards baseball hat. Her nail polish was bright red, the same shade as the skateboard. Peter imagined it was intentional. That she knew she was getting it and wanted to match.

"What are you doing?"

"Uh, I'm helping Santa…"

"So… you're like an elf."

"No not like an elf," said Peter. "Elves –"

"Help Santa," she finished for him, and Peter blinked under his mask. He didn't have it in him for anymore arguing, especially when she craned her neck to look around him, at the presents under the tree. "My skateboard!"

Sam ran to the tree, and Peter used the opportunity to sneak out of the apartment. Mr. Stark had waited for him in the hall.

"If I'm an elf," Peter told him, "That makes you Santa."

Mr. Stark shook his head and threw his arm around his shoulder as they started towards the Parker's apartment. "I'm not fat enough."

"But you're old enough."

"You're getting coal."

He didn't.

The next morning Peter woke up to a badly wrapped box at the end of his bed, and when he opened it, he found a newly built laptop. Something made just for him, or more specifically, something made just for Spider-Man. Loaded into was access to every security camera in Queens. That was probably, most definitely illegal, but Peter didn't mind. He couldn't get past the idea of Mr. Stark trusting him enough to give him something like this.

He carefully put his new computer on his desk, then joined May in the living room. Maybe this year, they could look at old photos and laugh.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading, and I hope everyone has a great Christmas holiday!


	4. No Questions Asked

A/N: Hi! This one-shot was inspired by my Endgame anxiety and my need for Tony to survive so he can be Morgan and Peter's dad. Only 23 more days until our hearts are ripped out of our chests!

* * *

Tony was awake when his phone vibrated, and Peter's face flashed across the screen.

It was 2:38 AM.

But that was normal. Not for Peter to call in the dead of night, but for Tony to be awake. He didn't sleep much anymore. It wasn't like before, when insomnia and anxiety stole his rest. He left those issues behind in space when him and Cap laid waste to Thanos and returned to Earth, along with everyone else who'd been dusted, along with Peter.

He looked down at the baby cradled in his arms. His baby. She was the most perfect and beautiful interruption to his sleep. Before sleepless nights were spent in a frenzy of tinkering and inventing and anxiety, now his sleepless nights were peaceful.

He rocked his daughter back and forth, until she was so deeply asleep, he could wander back to bed with Pepper. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he couldn't bear to put her down in her crib and walk out of her bedroom, leaving her all alone.

Tony knew how easily perfect and beautiful were destroyed by the world. He wasn't going to let that happen with his kids.

And so, when his phone went off at 2:38 AM, and he was sitting with his daughter in her bedroom, he carefully maneuvered a way to hold her with one arm and answer his cellphone with the other.

"Hey Mr. Sstark," said Peter. His voice sounded funny, groggy, but Tony blamed the time. Maybe he'd just woken up. "Do you 'member that time you told me I call you for help? No questions asked?"

"Peter I've never once told you that."

"Oh, maybe that was Ben."

Tony frowned. "Never mind. It still applies. What kind of help do you need?"

There was hesitation on the other end, some static noises that gave Tony the impression the phone was being shuffled to his other ear.

"Umm, I'm on a building," said Peter. "I don't – I don't really know if I can get down… the world is sp - spinning up here, Mr. Sstark."

"Peter are you drunk?"

"I think so."

"Stay where you are," said Tony. "I'm tracking your phone."

Tony punched the end call button with his thumb, placed the phone on the table and looked back down at his angel. He pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead, and for a split, fleeing second, considered waking Pepper up and handing her off to her mother instead of putting her back in the crib. He decided against it. Pepper needed her sleep, too.

He put her down in the crib, carefully, and stay and watched just long enough to assure she would stay asleep. She did, and only seconds later, Tony was out the door and into the night, ready to find his son and bring him home.

* * *

Tony found him on a rooftop in Brooklyn. Without his Iron Man suits, he'd left those behind in space as well, he had to physically climb up a fire escape to reach him. After he climbed the last step, and emerged on the top of the apartment building, he saw Peter, sitting at the ledge on the opposite side of the roof.

He was dressed as Spider-Man, but the mask lay forgotten as well as a series of empty beer cans, and to Tony's horror, a half empty bottle of rum.

Tony walked across the rooftop, making his steps heavy and loud, even though he was sure Peter already knew he was there. The very last thing Tony wanted or needed was for drunk Spidey to fall off a roof because he was jump scared.

"Ok Jack Sparrow," said Tony. He reached down and grabbed Peter under his arm. "Let's get you home."

Peter didn't fight him. Just went slack in Tony's arms, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He wobbled, a bit, but together, with Tony support, they make it back to the center of the rooftop, where the mask and the empty cans laid. A few feet over Tony spotted Peter's bag.

"Stay," said Tony.

He let go of Peter and was relieved to see that he could at least stand on his own. He grabbed his bookbag from the ground, then rummaged through it until he found Peter's clothes, pulling out his t-shirt and jeans. His wallet fell out of the jeans pocket and landed on Tony's shoe, opened to his ID.

It was wrong. Peter's birthdate was wrong. The numbers implied he was twenty-two. Tony looked at his kid, who was swaying back and forth as he tried to kick at some empty beer cans. Tony pocked the wallet while he was preoccupied.

Tony might not have been allowed to ask questions, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let him keep the fake ID.

He helped Peter out of the Spidey suit and into his normal clothes, shouldered his bookbag and guided him to the staircase. It was a long, tricky climb down. Tony did most of the work, his arm stretched across Peter's back as they took it one stair at a time. The situation didn't improve once they made it to the ground and Tony, once physically putting Peter in the car, had to buckle him in.

"If you throw up in my car," said Tony. "Your hungover ass is cleaning it out in the morning."

Peter only blinked back at him. Tony's words were useless. It was clear by Peter's vacant expression he wouldn't remember them in the morning.

And he didn't. Throw up. At least not in the car. He waited until they were back at the penthouse. Tony was trying to put him in his bed when his eyes got wide, when he broke free from Tony's grip and stumbled across the bedroom floor, barreling himself into his bathroom and falling on his knees in front of the toilet.

He threw up a lot, while Tony sat next to him and rubbed his back. Once he was empty, Tony gave him a bottle of water and guided him back to his bed. He lifted up the covers, pushed him inside and tucked him up.

Peter stared up at him and Tony decided he didn't like him when he was drunk. He was quiet. Too quiet. Normally Peter talked so much and so fast it was easy to know what was going on his head. Tony didn't like not knowing. Especially when he suspected something was seriously wrong.

It wasn't like him to have fake IDs and be wasted on the top of buildings.

With a tired, worried sigh, Tony sat on the side of Peter's bed and ran a hand through his hair, squeezed his shoulder.

"Thanks for calling me tonight," he told Peter. He didn't know where the wisdom to say those specific words came from, but they were the right words to say. Peter finally spoke.

"Mr. Stark… am I disappearing… again?"

"No," said Tony. He put more pressure on his shoulder. "You're right here. You're staying right here."

"I feel like I'm ten seconds away from disintegrating… all the time," said Peter. "I – Sometimes, I can't get it out of my head."

Tony tried to keep the horror off his face. He left his problems up in space, but Peter's problem was space. That deserted planet. What happened there. Thanos. Tony remembered what it was like to have nightmares about the wormhole. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to have them about his body breaking up into a million tiny pieces.

"Alcohol won't help."

"It does in the moment."

Maybe Tony was wrong. Maybe he liked Peter better when he quiet. That was the last sentence Tony wanted to hear his kid utter. It sounded too familiar. Too much like himself, but at least it was honest. Tony could work with that or hoped that he could. When Peter was sobered up, maybe, when he could comprehend more and actually remember their conversation.

Tony doubted he would remember any of this.

"Go to sleep," said Tony. He moved his hand from his shoulder, ran it through his hair one more time, then bent over and kissed his forehand. "We'll talk about it the morning."

It was a promise and order wrapped up into one single statement. Tony wouldn't ask questions. He wasn't allowed. It'd break the code, but the code couldn't stop him from pushing Peter into therapy. Tony wouldn't let Peter deal with his issues the way he himself tried to in the past. He'd help him work past it, the way Pepper and Rhodey helped him.

On his way back to his bedroom, he stopped by Morgan's room. Tony needed to be sure she was still breathing. He watched her sleep and vowed to be the kind of father Ben must have been to Peter, the kind of father who told their kids they could call him if they were in trouble and there would be no questions, no nagging, no yelling. Just help.

He hoped that whenever he told Morgan this, she would believe him, and that Peter would continue to believe him.

Eventually, he crawled back into his own bed next to Pepper. The alarm would ring in three hours, and he'd have to survive another day with little sleep, thanks to his kids. He didn't mind. As long as they were breathing.


	5. Imprisoned

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm gonna start transferring a few more of my febuwhump stories on this site, so if you follow me on A03, you're already read this. Sorry! But if you don't, please enjoy!

 **Imprisoned**

"This isn't fair," said Peter.

He was being marched down the hallway of the penthouse. Mr. Stark had one hand on Peter's shoulder, and the another clasped around the strap of his bookbag. He carried it with them because Peter refused to carry it himself. He wouldn't dig his own grave.

"This is… cruel and unusual punishment."

They both came to a stop outside of Peter's bedroom. He'd been thrilled about having one at Mr. Stark's penthouse at first, when him and May decided he'd spend some weekends over there, and normally he loved Mr. Stark weekends. They were spent down in the workshop, upgrading his suit, or in the private theater, where him and Mr. Stark took turns showing each other their favorite movies.

There wouldn't be any of that this weekend, though. Mr. Stark seemed to be determined to ruin everything that was ever magic about their every other weekend together.

"Don't be so dramatic," said Mr. Stark. He gave him a shove inside his bedroom and tried to hand him his bag. Peter didn't take it, so instead, it got dropped on the floor by his feet. "You did this to yourself."

"This is false imprisonment."

"Peter," said Mr. Stark. "Read the book, write the essay, and then you can come out."

"But," he started. "It's not even due until Monday, I have three days."

"Uh, no. It was due today and your teacher decided to give you a pass."

"What? How did you – "

"I get CCd in to all the emails," said Mr. Stark, and before Peter could react, before he could reflect on how truly terrifying it was to have him involved with parent teacher emails, the door slammed in his face and he was locked inside.

He looked around his penthouse bedroom. It was the most fancy prison, but it was still a prison. For a few minutes, he stood by the door and waited. He gave Mr. Stark adequate time to leave the floor, then tried turning the doorknob. He needed to know for sure, even if he was completely destroyed when the door wouldn't budge.

Peter sighed and stomped across his bedroom. Leave it to Mr. Stark to actually lock him in his bedroom. Sometimes, like right then, he thought him and May took this co-parenting thing a bit too far. He would have to convince Ned to hack into the school and get Mr. Stark's email off the list. He saw this development ruining more than one of his weekends.

Since his phone had been confiscated, and there was literally nothing else for him to do, he pulled that book, the one he now hated, from his bag. He grabbed his laptop, too, and opened it with every intention of taking notes, but instead, he started installing updates. He'd been ignoring them for way too long, and he couldn't really read the book if he didn't have anything to take notes on, so he decided he'd start once the updates were finished.

He laid flat on his bed, stared straight up at the ceiling and started counting the lines. That clearly was a much better use of his time.

Peter thanked the gods or the universe or whatever for blessing him with super-hearing. Mr. Stark's footsteps clunking down the hall gave him just enough time to resume position. He flailed around on his bed, grabbed the book and opened to a page, any page, it didn't matter which one. He hadn't started reading it yet.

When the door creaked open, Peter lifted his head above the book and pretended to be surprised at the sight of Mr. Stark carrying a tray of food. His dinner, he guessed.

"Oh look," said Peter. "It's the warden with my rations."

"Yeah," said Mr. Stark. He put the tray down on his desk, and Peter sat up. "And he's looking for a progress report. What page are you on?"

"Uh – "

"FRIDAY?"

"Peter is on the title page."

Mr. Stark gave him a dead look. "Seriously, kid? It's been three hours."

"I can't concentrate," he told him. "Maybe if I could just go outside, and get some fresh air – "

He trailed off after reading Mr. Stark's expression. There was no point in continuing. The look on his face said it all. He left Peter to eat his dinner and suffer in the silence by himself. That was the worst part of this whole situation. Peter wasn't sure how much longer he could take the isolation.

The next time Mr. Stark barged into his room to check on him, Peter didn't bother pretending. He was lying flat on his bed again, but this time, he was throwing a ball up and down in the air. He threw it in the air one last time as the door flew open and Mr. Stark came in, except this time instead of catching it, it hit him on the top of the head.

Mr. Stark offered nothing but a long, exaggerated sigh as he rubbed his temple and stocked across the room. He sat at the end of Peter's bed.

"Ok," he said, rubbing his hands together. "What's the deal? Allergic to books? Forgot how to read? You're trying drive me insane?"  
"I told you I can't concentrate," said Peter, miserable and not trying to hide it. He had no idea how long he'd been locked in his bedroom, but it was too long. "Just let me take an F. English is a shit subject anyway."

"Mmmhmm, that's just what the world needs, more illiterate idiots, as if it isn't bad enough they're running our government and ruining society."

"I think we're safe then, Mr. Stark. I have no interest in politics."

That, at least, got a laugh. "Come on, kid. You're usually so annoyingly responsible when with school stuff. What gives?"

Peter sat up, used his elbows as props, and stared at Mr. Stark. He didn't know how many times he would have to answer this same exact question, but he hoped this was the last time.

"I can't concentrate," said Peter. "I have to read the same sentence over and over again, and I can never make it past the first page."

"Oh…. So when you say you can't concentrate you actually mean you can't – "

"-yes."

"Huh." He had a far-off expression on his face, and Peter hoped he was feeling guilty about the hours of torment he just put him through. "I guess I was confusing you with a normal teenager."

Peter rolled his eyes and collapsed back down on the bed. "Can I leave my room now?"

"No," said Mr. Stark. "You still have to get this done, but I will help you."

He picked up the dreaded book off the floor and sat down next to Peter by the headboard. He handed him the book, and Peter took it. What choice did he have? Zero. Less now that Mr. Stark appeared to in it for the long haul, ready to sit on his bed with him until his homework was complete.

"Read it out loud. We'll alternate each chapter, and you can jot notes down when it's my turn reading," he said, then checked his watch. "If we get through four chapters tonight, we should be able to get that essay done by tomorrow evening, and still have all of Sunday just like normal."

Peter eyed him, skeptical that this plan would work, but four chapters later, he had a decent start to an essay and a firm grasp of what was happening in the book. It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as Peter made it out to be in his head, at least.

The next day went even smoother. It was a lot easier to focus on the sound of his own voice, and Mr. Stark's, then if the words were just floating around inside his head, fighting for space with the other million thoughts he had at any given time.

They knocked it out, faster than expected, and by the end of the day Saturday, the living area in his bedroom was filled with empty milkshake cups and cheeseburger wrappers, and one completed essay, printed on the best paper and clasped into the most expensive looking report cover Peter had ever seen.

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," said Peter, shoving his homework into his bookbag. "Now we can please go outside?"

Peter didn't wait for an answer. He catapulted himself out of his bedroom and into the hallway, free, and happy that he wouldn't have an F bringing down his GPA, even if had gone through literal torture to get it.

A few weeks later, when he got his paper back and graded with a miracle one hundred written across the top, he admitted, only to himself, of course, that it'd all been worth it.


	6. Bullied

**TW: Here's a trigger warning for sexual assault of a minor.** Please don't continue if that's not something you're safe reading!

Summary: Peter gets bullied by his teacher, Mr. Westcott, but it quickly turns into something more sinister.

Tony and May are not fans of this.

 **Bullied**

Mr. Westcott's interest in Peter started with an accident.

He didn't make a habit of correcting teachers. Especially not in front of the whole class, but he was off his game, tired from a late night of patrolling, and Mr. Westcott called on him to answer the equation on the board. Except. The formulas written next to it were all wrong, and Peter figured he wasn't the only one who had a late night based on the bags under Mr. Westcott's eyes.

He stayed seated, he explained, as polite as he could, the issues with what was written on the board, and watched Mr. Westcott's eyes dim. The classroom was silent after Peter was done talking. His face burned red from the attention, and those few seconds were the longest of Peter's life.

Finally, Mr. Westcott broke the silence by saying, "Oh, well aren't you a genius? Maybe Parker here should be teaching this class instead of me."

There were a few nervous chuckles, and Peter forced himself to smile, despite his Spidey senses screaming at him. When Mr. Stark called him genius it was a term of endearment, even if he was being sarcastic, but when Mr. Westcott called him genius… it was different. It jabbed. It made him feel like the opposite of a genius. It eroded at something inside, and it was a sign of trouble.

The next day Peter was still standing when the late bell rang for Mr. Westcott's class. He wasn't the only one out of his seat, but he was the only one who got detention for it. A real drag, too, because Peter had to send a text to Mr. Stark telling him he couldn't make it.

His reply was almost instant.

 _Detention? Finally I'm getting through to you, nice job, kid_

Peter smiled as he shoved his phone back into his bookbag. Mr. Stark spent a lot of time when they were together encouraging what he called healthy rebellion.

"Don't be afraid to break the rules sometimes, Pete," he'd say, then later he'd add, as an afterthought, "Unless they're my rules."

So, he walked into Mr. Westcott's classroom for detention that evening with his head high, in a good mood, despite the circumstances. He slipped into his desk, started to get his homework out, but Mr. Westcott stopped him.

"No. I have something else for you to work on." He put a blank notebook on his desk. "I want you to write I will be in my seat when the bell rings for Mr. Westcott's class."

Peter frowned. He hadn't been told to write lines since elementary school. "How many times?"

"Until detention hours are over," he said. His back was turned, and he was already half-way back to his desk.

He stared at the blank page for a beat, then began writing. It wasn't that bad. Nothing he couldn't handle, even if it was a bit monotonous. He could deal with anything for forty-five minutes, or at least, he thought he could. Forty-five minutes was a long time when Peter started getting detention every day.

For little things, for nothing at all. For getting an F on a test Peter was sure deserved an A.

When Mr. Westcott handed the test back to him, it was the F was plastered obnoxiously large, in red marker, along with a note to see him at the end of the day for another detention.

"I guess even geniuses have their bad days," he said, as he moved on, as he passed the other tests back to the other students.

The rest of the day was filled with a sense of dread. He was tired of writing lines, tired of being forced to give up forty-five minutes of his life so an old man could flex his ego, but most of all, tired of having to text Mr. Stark that he couldn't help him in the workshop after school.

His replies were always immediate, but that was the first time one ever expressed concern.

 _Again? Should I be worried you're taking this rebellion thing too far?_

After the final bell rang, Peter made his way to Mr. Westcott's classroom and sat at his desk. The notebook was already waiting for him. It was the same one every detention, but he wasn't always assigned the same lines. They got weirder and weirder, went from phrases like _I will not ignore Mr. Westcott when he's talking_ to _I will not glare at Mr. Westcott._

He wasn't sure he ever did any of those things, but maybe he had. Mr. Westcott wasn't his favorite person, so it was entirely possible. He wrote the lines without complaint, but that day, when Mr. Westcott told him what to write, Peter snapped his head up fast.

"What?"

"Should I speak more slowly?" asked Mr. Westcott.

"Umm no."

Mr. Westcott nodded, and made a motion that meant he was supposed to get to work, as if he was signaling an animal or something subhuman. That time Peter did glare at him, when he wasn't looking, before settling his gaze down at the blank paper.

He didn't want to write it. He knew both May and Mr. Stark wouldn't want him to, either, but he didn't have a choice. He gritted his teeth, forced his hand to move across the page, and wrote what was expected of him.

 _I'm not smarter than Mr. Westcott._

Each line felt gross and wrong. It chipped away at him, cut him to the bone, but writing did get easier and easier, until he was numb, until he didn't really care all that much about it. They were just words. Maybe they were true, probably they were. It didn't mean Peter had to care. Being smart wasn't all that important to him anymore.

Peter didn't call out Mr. Westcott the next day in class when he wrote the wrong equations on the board, not even when he looked right at him, and gave him the floor to speak. He stayed quiet, he stayed small, and finally, he didn't get detention.

* * *

Stepping into the workshop and seeing Mr. Stark for the first time in weeks was like a breath of fresh air. He felt it than more than he ever had before, that Mr. Stark's presence was drenched with safety. He was an asylum when the rest of his world seemed to be crumbling from under him.

"Oh my god," said Mr. Stark, after Peter stepped into the room. "Is that Peter Parker? In my workshop? How did I get so lucky?"

"Maybe you were nice to a wizard in a past life," said Peter. An odd thing to say, but he didn't really have to censor himself there in the workshop. He could be a nerd, and Mr. Stark would joke, but they were jokes that didn't cut.

"Doesn't sound like something I would do," said Mr. Stark. He scratched his head. "Uh, do we need to have a talk… about behavior? You're what, getting detention every night now?"

Peter shook his head and jumped up to sit on the work station, ignoring the chair. "No, my teacher – Mr. Westcott, he's just out to get me because I corrected him in class one day, I know I shouldn't have, so it's my fault – "

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Mr. Stark cut him off, and his hand flew up and pointed at him. "If someone is wrong, you call them out on it. Period. I don't care what kind of authority they think they have."

Peter shifted around, uncomfortable, because if not correcting Mr. Westcott in class and making himself smaller meant he wouldn't get anymore detentions, anymore lines to write, that was what he was going to do.

"Sounds like a useless teacher to me. With your intellect and leadership skills, you could be teaching that class yourself," said Mr. Stark. "Do you need me to talk to the school? To get him off your back?"

"No, that's okay. I can deal."

He sincerely thought he could. Mr. Westcott wasn't so big. It took dozens of forty-five-minute sessions of writing lines for him to make Peter feel dumb, and only one compliment from Mr. Stark to make him confident that he wasn't.

Peter needed that confidence to last him the rest of the semester, although he knew it wouldn't. Every time he sat in class, and didn't raise his hand to answer questions, and worked hard to keep a neutral expression on his face while he maintained a posture that would make it obvious he was paying attention, he felt a little more drained.

More drained than serving out a detention and writing lines. He wasn't so sure all this effort to avoid them was worth, and by Friday, after avoiding them for three straight days, he knew it wasn't. Mr. Westcott made him stop by his classroom after the last bell anyway.

He sat down at his desk, noticed that dreaded notebook was nowhere in sight, but somehow, that made the knot in his stomach a bit tighter. It got even tighter when Mr. Westcott approached his desk and stood by too close.

"You can relax," said Mr. Westcott. His tone was different. Wrong. A lie. Peter did not relax. "You're not in trouble. I just wanted to compliment you. You've been doing so good in class these last couple of days. I've seen a big improvement, it's like you're a completely different person."

Not the person he wanted to be, though, and maybe that was the real intent behind Mr. Westcott's words. To mock, to sting, to flex his imaginary power.

"How old are you? Seventeen?"

"Sixteen," corrected Peter.

"Seventeen is practically an adult," said Mr. Westcott. "I think you're earned the right to call me by my first name. Skip. Just when we're spending time together."

It seemed strange to Peter that Mr. Westcott was proclaiming him an adult when he was speaking to him in a tone that suggested he was a much younger child, and he hardly thought of detention as spending time together. More like spending time in hell.

"Mr. Westcott, if I'm not in trouble I really need to go, I have my internship."

"You can spare a few more minutes."

Mr. Westcott stepped closer, they were so close their knees touched, and Peter wanted to bolt. He didn't. He was frozen in place. His body was stuck to the chair while his consciousness tried to fly from his body as Mr. Westcott put his hand on Peter's thigh. He was slowly moving it up, closer and closer, while Peter's senses screamed, and his breath hitched.

Internal voices swirled in his head, but the loudest one sounded like Mr. Stark. It broke through the numbness, and the next thing Peter knew, he stood up, he pushed Mr. Westcott into the neighboring desk and fled to door.

"Peter!" yelled Mr. Westcott. His voice echoed around in Peter's head. He stopped at the door but didn't turn. "You know better than to tell anyone about this. Who would believe you?"

Peter took off. He sprinted through the halls of Midtown and the streets of New York, so fast and hard that his lungs were ready to explode. He didn't stop, though. He had to get there, to place that was safe, to one of the only two people in the world who would believe anything he told them, without question.

He tore out of the elevator and into Mr. Stark's penthouse, out of breath and panting.

"Peter? Oh, good. I was just about to order dinner. What sounds good? Sushi? Thai? Pizza?" said Mr. Stark. He looked up from his phone. "What's wrong?"

"S-something happened.. with Mr. Westcott," said Peter. He managed to keep it together up until that point. The safety Mr. Stark eluded made it okay to cry. "I… I pushed him…"

Mr. Stark's face folded into a frown. His jaw became tight and there was fury in his eyes. He stepped forward and grabbed Peter by the arms, steadying him when he hadn't even realized he needed the support.

"What did he do?"

It was easier to confess his own crimes than the ones perpetrated against him. It was humiliating, and terrifying. Peter didn't want to be anyone's victim, but like a switch flipping, he remembered something May used to say all the time. If he stayed silent about Mr. Westcott, the more power he gave him.

"Umm," said Peter. He took a couple steps backward, out of Mr. Stark's hold and held his hand up to stare at it. "He sort of… put his hand – "

Peter didn't get the chance to finish. Mr. Stark had already turned on his heel and stalked off towards the balcony, where Peter was sure his suit would meet him.

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"I'm going down to that school and I'm gonna – "

"-No you can't." Peter ran to catch up with him.

"There's a fucking pedophile working there. What do you expect me to do?"

Peter looked at the floor. He knew Mr. Stark wasn't raising his voice because of him, but it didn't mean he hated it any less.

"I just thought… we could call the police," said Peter. "And you could stay with me when I make the report."

Mr. Stark turned his head, setting his gaze out to the balcony, then looked back at Peter and released a breath. He walked back toward him and started to put his arms out for a hug but withdrew. As if now he thought he didn't have permission. Peter didn't get his hug until he closed the distance and laid his head on Mr. Stark's shoulder.

"They might not be able to do anything," said Mr. Stark. "And if they do, he won't be in jail forever."

"I know."

He felt Mr. Stark's hand go through his hair, then a kiss on the top of his head. It was safe, and Peter was safe.

* * *

The police came, and they asked questions and Peter answered while Mr. Stark sat next to him on the couch. It was clinical for them. Their questions were routine, and without emotion, and Peter couldn't help but to feel a little thankful for that. Once it was done, and they left, Peter spent the rest of the night clinging to Mr. Stark while they watched movies.

He did wonder what was taking May so long to join them at the penthouse. He wasn't left wondering too long. Mr. Stark left the room to take a phone call, and when he came back, he threw a jacket at Peter.

"Come on," he told him. "We have to go pick up your aunt from the police station."

"What? Why?"

"… she got to Westcott before they did."

Getting May out of jail was easy, just like everything appeared to be for Mr. Stark, and instead of going back to their apartment, they went back to the penthouse where they planned on staying for the next couple of weeks, until all the chaos with the media died down. That worked out for Peter. He didn't want to be without Mr. Stark or May.

It didn't work out so well for Mr. Westcott. The press had a field day with his mugshot. The bruises around his eyes and his on his face looked like a nightmare. Peter wondered if Mr. Westcott could see past the bruises when he looked in the mirror.

Peter's bruises were invisible, but that didn't mean they weren't there. He could look past his. He never saw a victim staring back at him when he looked in the mirror. Mr. Stark and May and even Pepper had it drilled into him that he wasn't. Not a victim. Just a son with a lot of parents who would kill for him, and one who almost did.


	7. Ghost

Summary: A psychic warns Peter he's cursed and Tony is entertained.

* * *

Peter's obsession with ghosts started with a psychic and lots of rain.

Buckets and buckets of raindrops that pelted down from the heavens as him and Ned attempted to walk home from school for the last time as sophomores.

And they had been excited about that, too. A summer full of possibilities, and for Peter, a summer filled with missions with the Avengers. Mr. Stark had promised him. No more Spidey on the sidelines.

The raincloud appeared out of nowhere with a gusty wind and a clap of thunder. One minute they enjoyed the sunshine and a slight breeze, the next they were in near darkness, speeding down a sidewalk in Queens with their bookbags held over their heads in an unsuccessful attempt to stay dry.

The sound of it, of heavy rain pounding the sidewalks, the buildings, the car windows, was overwhelming, and it was all Peter could hear until Ned pulled him into a café. Bells chimed as the door slowly shut behind them, as they stood on the welcome rug shaking water out from their shoes and putting their bookbags back on their backs.

It was a cluttered little café, with dream-catchers hanging all around, multiple paintings crammed on the walls and no less than five essential oil diffusers, all expelling white mist and contributing to the strange smell filling the room. Not the sort of smell Peter associated with cafes, but when his eyes trailed across the wooden sign hanging above the counter and the cash register, he figured it out.

Carved in mysterious, cursive letters, the sign said: Sylvia Duncan – Queens' Authentic Psychic.

It was just sort of self-proclaimed declaration that made Peter suspicious. The kind that suggested the opposite was true. Psychics and authenticity didn't mix well, but psychics and scams blended together nicely.

Sylvia Duncan came gliding out from the back room, shot them a toothy, crooked grin and went behind the cash register.

"What can I get for you boys?" she asked them, with a titled head.

Peter and Ned looked at each other, then stumbled forward a bit to glance up at the menu. He didn't want anything, not from here, but he was sure him and Ned were thinking along the same lines. It'd be rude to hide in here from the rain and not buy anything. The menu was messy handwriting on a giant chalkboard that hung from the ceiling. It wasn't legible, so Peter guessed at his order.

"Umm we'll take hot chocolate?" said Peter. A strange choice for spring, but the air condition and his wet clothes and hair was starting to make him shiver. He reached from his wallet. Shiny and new black leather, filled with a couple of twenties that raised Ned's eyebrows. "A gift from Mr. Stark."

The explanation was needed. Peter never had that kind of cash, so the mistake wasn't realized until he saw the expression that flashed across Sylvia's face. He shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have implied he was connected to wealth. As he looked at her, he saw the gears turning behind her eyes.

She marked him as a sucker, and maybe he was.

"Perfect," she said. She punched in some codes on the register, then stopped, paused to look at both of them for an uncomfortable amount of time. "Free reading with each cup."

Peter and Ned exchanged more nervous glances when she looked back down at the register. Ned adjusted the strap on his bag, and Peter kicked at the carpet, trying to ignore the way his wet socks squished every time he moved his feet.

She rang up the total, sixteen dollars for two cups, then stumbled around behind the counter, preparing it for them. Peter's eyes flickered back and forth from the rainstorm pouring down outside and the cramped café. A debate played out in his head, and ten minutes later he found himself sitting next to Ned, both high up on stools. A small circular table sat between them and the psychic, with two cups of hot chocolate sat off to the side. Ignored.

"You first," she said, looking at Peter. She extended her hands across the table, opened her fists to reveal her palms, sat up straighter and closed her eyes.

Peter looked at Ned, who shrugged and mouthed, "I don't know, man."

Slowly, Peter placed his hands in hers, but the second they touched, she snatched her hands away immediately. Peter and Ned jumped back, inched further from their stools and were ready to bolt, as her eyes flew open and widened.

"You have to go," she told them. She hopped down from her stool and retreated back behind the counter.

"Wait, what?"

"I'm closing," she said. She pointed to the door. "Out. Out of my shop."

"But the rain –" Ned started, but the absence of the rain noise brought Peter's gaze to the windows. The sun was out, and it was strong. There wasn't a drop of water to be seen.

It enticed them both off the stools and nearer to the door. Peter paused with his hand on the doorknob, and looked back at Sylvia, suddenly curious.

"What did you see?"

"You," she said. "Are cursed. And stalked by spirits."

"Stalked by spirits?" asked Peter. "You mean, like, ghosts?"

She narrowed her eyes and pointed the door again.

Once outside, Peter looked around. The only evidence the rain left behind were wet car windows and small puddles on the roads. Up above, the sky was clear, the sun was blazing, and the birds were out and chirping.

"Scam artist," said Ned. "That was the most expensive cup of hot chocolate I never drank."

"Yeah. That was… crazy," said Peter.

That night Peter and May ate spaghetti in the living room in front of the TV. Some reality show played in the background, something mindless but entertaining. Trash TV only watched to zone out and let minds wander somewhere else, or rather fixate.

Peter couldn't stop thinking about ghosts. The idea of unseen entities floating around, stalking him, was ridiculous, just as ridiculous as Sylvia the psychic, and yet there was something appealing about it, something that made him want to believe it was true.

He turned to May. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

It took her a few seconds to disengage from the drama unfolding on the TV, but eventually, she looked over, made eye-contact and smiled. "I try to keep an open mind. Why?"

"No reason."

When his aunt disappeared into her room, Peter switched the TV to YouTube, where he watched amateur ghost hunting videos. It was disappointing. Most of them seemed fake, but they did give him ideas. He opened his Amazon app. He bought some supplies.

If there were any ghosts following him around, he was going to find them, and for the next couple of weeks, he devoted himself to finding the supernatural.

Ned joined him in his hunt, and together, armed with an EMF reader, they explored all the unsavory, abandoned buildings in Queens, the places they thought ghosts might go to hang out when they weren't stalking Peter. Each time they entered a new potentially haunted building, they did it with excitement and apprehension, and only to leave disappointed just a few hours later.

It was clear.

If there were any ghosts hanging around, they didn't want to be found by Peter.

After a couple of weeks, him and Ned got bored and tired of their search. The EMF reader got pushed under Peter's bed while they built a new Lego set on the floor, and they both forgot about it.

* * *

The next time Peter thought about the curse and the ghosts he was miles under the city of New York, and he definitely wasn't chasing after it. The curse was chasing after him.

He stood, terrified, in a small puddle of water. The gross water bled into his tennis shoes as he looked all around at the concrete walls and ceilings.

If the curse was real, this was going to be the moment when it struck him down, because of course it would creep up in the moment he was defenseless, without even his Spidey suit to protect him.

"It's better if you look defenseless," Mr. Stark had told him, hours earlier, as he sprayed him down with something from an unmarked can. It made Peter cough and twitch. "Hold still."

"What is this stuff?"

"Something to get its attention."

"Mr. Stark," Peter had said. "It sort of sounds like you're using me as bait."

"Bait is better than sitting out on the sidelines, right?" He motioned with his hand for Peter to turn, and Peter obeyed. "And don't worry. We won't let it near you. We'll be there the whole time."

Peter wasn't so sure. Looking around, he didn't see any of them, and he might as well been down in the sewers all alone. Just him and his curse.

Something moved in the water, and Peter froze. His heartrate kicked up a notch as he stared down, watching to see if anything was swimming towards him, but it didn't return to normal after he saw nothing was approaching him.

"Umm guys," said Peter, through their coms. "I think now's a good time to tell you that a psychic once told me I was cursed so if I get eaten by the sewer monster – "

There was laughter in his ears, from more than one source, but Mr. Stark's was the loudest.

"A psychic? Kid please tell me you didn't pay actual money to get your palms read by a scam artist."

"Technically I paid for hot chocolate."

He kicked his foot in the water, and watched the ripple current it made. He supposed this was fine. As long as he could hear Mr. Stark and the others laughing, talking to him, even if it was at his expense, he could be bait.

Then it happened. Something touched the back of his shin, and he screamed. He jumped up, his foot got tangled in something mysterious, and he fell, flat on his back, still screaming and now splashing in the gross sewer water. Just as promised, Iron Man came flying down out of nowhere and landed next to him.

Peter stopped screaming, and watched Mr. Stark look around, confused, in all directions before his face mask came down.

"What happened?"

"Uh," said Peter. "Something touched my leg."

Mr. Stark looked down, in the water, and reached down and grabbed something. He held it out for Peter to see with a grin. It was a doll. Something kids would play with.

"I'm calling it for tonight guys," said Bruce, through the coms. "If it was in this area, it's gone now."

Peter hung his head, and Mr. Stark pulled him up out of the sewer water. It had to be the first time in Avenger's history the monster was scared away by screaming.

* * *

After spending over twenty minutes in the shower, furiously scrubbing the sewer off himself, Peter stood in his brand-new bedroom in the Avenger's compound, in pajamas and with soaking wet hair.

Peter didn't know how he was supposed to go to bed after being traumatized in the sewer, even if it was just by a doll, but he climbed onto it anyway. He didn't make it under the covers. There was a noise. A strange one, and it made Peter freeze up the same way the rippling waters in the sewer had.

He focused in on the ghostly noise and scrambled out of his room, following it to a floor he'd never been on before and therefore declared spooky. He made his steps light, started to creep around a corner just as someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he catapulted into the air.

"Jumpy today, huh?"

Peter turned, and when he saw who it was, glared. "Shhh Mr. Stark. You're going to scare them away."

"Scare what away?"

"… the ghosts."

Mr. Stark looked like he was trying to hold back a laugh. "Psychics, and now ghosts?"

Peter shrugged, and the noise spouted off again.

"That's your ghost?" said Mr. Stark, with a raised eyebrow. Peter nodded. "Kid that's the plumbing. They're coming to fix it tomorrow."

Peter hung his head again, slumped his shoulders and sighed, crushed with disappointment one more time.

"Come on, ghostbuster," said Mr. Stark. He put his arm around him and led him back towards the elevator. "I'll walk you back to your room."

Once they got to his bedroom, Mr. Stark followed Peter inside, stood in the middle of the room, and looked around. His eyes eventually closed in on Peter, and he clapped his hands together.

"Do you need me to check under the bed?" asked Mr. Stark, and Peter frowned. "Or the closets? Vents?"

"Very funny, Mr. Stark," said Peter.

"I'm just saying, there could be a scary doll or a leaking pipe around here somewhere…" Mr. Stark looked at him, then laughed. It was genuine and that was rare, so Peter smiled despite himself. "God, kid. I'm gonna be so bored when your summer break ends. Where else will I get my entertainment when you're locked up in school?"

"I dunno," said Peter. He sat down on the end of his bed. "Why don't you join a bridge club? I hear it's popular in the old folk's home."

Mr. Stark walked across the room, and at first Peter thought it was to retaliate against his joke, but instead the man simply sat next to him.

"Do you want to tell why you're suddenly so hyper focused on psychics and ghosts?"

"I don't know," said Peter, with a shrug. He looked down at his hands gripping the edge of the mattress, then back up at Mr. Stark. "I guess I just want to believe in that sort of thing, you know? Like… I like the idea of the people who leave us haven't really left, like maybe my parents and my uncle Ben are still here, watching."

Mr. Stark didn't say anything back. The silence, after admitting something so personal, was too much to handle.

"I know it's stupid."

"It's not," said Mr. Stark. "You know years ago I might have called you batshit crazy for believing in ghosts, but I've seen so many bizarre things since Afghanistan, that seems like the least crazy. Besides, I like the idea that Howard has to watch me piss on his grave from the afterlife."

"Mr. Stark," said Peter, with reprimand.

"What?"

Peter shook his head, Mr. Stark ruffled his hair, and they both laughed. He stood up from his bed, and told him goodnight, but Peter only let him get halfway to the door before stopping him. Mr. Stark turned, and waited for him.

"Do you think we could have a movie night tonight?" asked Peter. He looked around his bedroom. It was great. He was thankful for it, but he didn't want to be alone with the ghosts. "And I could sleep on your couch in your suite, like I used to?"

"So, you finally get your own room and you want to sleep on my couch?"

Peter nodded.

"Yeah, okay. A movie sounds good."

Relief washed over him as he followed Mr. Stark back to his suite. They got snacks and spread them out of the coffee table, and FRIDAY played the next movie they had in queue. They were about ten minutes into the movie when Peter looked over at Mr. Stark.

"That thing you said about your dad's grave," said Peter. "You were speaking figuratively, right?"

"Sure."

Mr. Stark kicked his feet up on the table, then aimed a grin at Peter, letting him in on the joke. Peter smiled back, sunk deeper into the couch, and forgot about the curse. If anyone was stalked by ghosts, it was Mr. Stark, and he seemed to be doing alright. At least they could be haunted together.


	8. a stunning disaster

A/N: This is post-endgame, kind of a fix it, in the sense that everyone is still alive. Anyways Endgame spoilers live below.

Summary: Peter is homesick at college, because his asshole room mate and feeling like he doesn't belong but it's almost time for summer, and he goes home right in time for a family tragedy, the death of Morgan Stark's beloved goldfish.

* * *

Peter stared up at his ceiling and counted down the hours he had left until he could go home. Well, one of his homes. The one with Tony and Morgan and Pepper, by the lake. He checked his phone. It was only 9:37 PM.

Through the walls of his dorm and stretching across campus, Peter could hear the parties from his bed. The end of the spring semester celebrations was all loud music, laughing, swearing, drunk people yelling at each other, drunk people trying to sing. It all mixed together into an annoying sound, the sound of what Peter wasn't, because he wasn't invited and that was sort of the problem.

No one was invited.

Invited was a high school term.

People just showed up to college parties, unannounced, or at least, that's what happened according to his roommate, who was always invited in the sense that he knew people, that he belonged here at MIT and Peter didn't. Belonged like Tony must've belonged, with his last name and with his money and his ability to become an expert on something overnight by simply reading a book.

He thought about Tony and wondered if he would be disappointed if he knew what he was doing, or rather, what he wasn't doing. That he wasn't celebrating the end of his spring semester with the rest of his class. That he was in bed before 10 PM, watching the seconds and minutes tick away, because college wasn't everything Tony told him it would be.

Or at least, it wasn't for Peter.

He missed Ned, who was across the country attending Caltech, and he missed MJ, who was just a short train ride into the city. She was attending NYC, but despite her still being close, their schedules didn't line up often. He rarely saw her.

He missed being Spider-Man.

He missed Queens and Midtown.

He missed _Flash_.

He missed when bullies were straight forward and harmless, instead of the kind of passive aggressive that crept under his skin and lived there, when bullies went their own separate way at the end of day, instead of sleeping in the bed on the other side of the room.

"They shouldn't give away scholarships," Bradley the third, his roommate, had told him, on the day they first met. "It isn't fair. To you, or for us. People like you just don't fit in places like this."

Bradley the third had taken one look at Peter and had decided he was there strictly because he had multiple scholarships. It wasn't true. Peter declined the scholarships he won, so people who weren't fortunate enough to have a billionaire pay for their education could have a chance to go somewhere they didn't belong, too.

Peter hadn't said anything in response. It wouldn't have mattered. According Bradley, attending MIT was just about being smart. It was about having pedigree, about having money.

He hadn't believed it then, but by now, on his final night of his freshman year, he believed it. Bradley was right. If the wasn't, then Peter would have found a way to fit in, would've found friends who were more than just acquaintances or classmates.

Once or twice, Peter thought about calling Tony. Maybe he could pull some strings and get him into a solo room, one without Bradley and his continuous obnoxious and loud opinions, but that would've brought questions Peter wasn't ready to answer.

He didn't want to admit it to Tony that he hated it here, that he just wanted to come home, to Queens or to the lake house. He didn't want to disappoint him, or to bother him with his problems that were so small compared to the ones Tony dealt with as Iron Man.

Maybe someday, he'd look back and these problems would feel as small as they actually were, but they didn't in that moment, as he stared up at his ceiling and listened to the parties go on without him.

A spider crawled across the ceiling, and it was the closest thing he had to a star, so he wished on it, instead. He wished the night away, for morning to come fast, to be home at the lake house, where him and May spent their summers, the same way Bradley the third and his friends retreated to the south of France or the Bahamas.

The spider heard him. Once he was done with his wishing, his phone buzzed, and Tony's face flashed across the screen. He brought the phone to his ear, then answered.

"Peter," Tony's voice came out immediate, clear, tense. Wild possibilities flew through Peter's mind, about what could be wrong, what could make Tony's voice sound that way, but he still wasn't prepared for what he told him. "Morgan's goldfish died."

Peter let out a breath of relief.

"Again? What are you feeding those things?" asked Peter, then thought better of it. " _Are_ you feeding those things?"

"Of course we feed them," snapped Tony. He was always a little edgy after fish deaths. He didn't want Morgan to know, didn't want to see or hear her cry. "They're goldfish. They don't live very long."

Peter frowned. That wasn't completely true. At least not one hundred percent of the time, but he didn't bother telling that to Tony.

"I need you to drive down early and bring a replacement."

"How early?"

"Morgan is usually up by seven, so, uh, like now."

"Tony," said Peter. He was already sitting up, already ready and happy for his excuse to ditch his dorm early and not say goodbye to Bradley the third. "It's almost 10 PM. Pet stores are closed."

"What's a locked door to a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man," said Tony. "Just crawl in there and – "

"-you want me to rob a pet store?"

"If it makes you feel better, you can leave some cash on the counter on your way out," said Tony. There was some noise in the background, and Tony muttered something about DUM-E before continuing, "I've gotta go put out fires. See you later, kid. I'm gonna send you a picture of him, so you can find one that matches."

"Wait- "

But he was met only with silence. Tony had already hung up.

With a sigh, Peter dropped his arm and let his phone fall from his ear and looked around his small room. His bags were already packed, by the door, ready to go. As he left, as he walked through the halls of his dormitory and thought about the disaster that was his Freshman year, he thought about the summer that stretched in front of him, how it hadn't really started yet, but still, somehow, he already knew it wouldn't be long enough.

* * *

Hours later, and into the night, Peter was home.

He stood with Tony at the end of the dock on his lake. With a small, weary sigh, Tony dipped a fish bowl into the water, freeing the dead fish into the lake. Flushing him down the toilet, Tony had explained to him earlier, wasn't an option. He found that idea unkind, like they were sending the fish into the afterlife in the sewers, but if they released him into the lake, he'd go to fish heaven.

They watched as the golden fish bobbed lifelessly on top of the water, until Tony's hand found Peter's shoulder and they turned to face each other instead.

"It's good to see you, Peter," he told him. "I'm glad you're home."

It was the first non-dead fish related sentence spoken to him all evening.

"It's gonna be a great summer," continued Tony. "You know Pep said you'd probably want to spend it with all your new college buddies, now I can finally say I was right about something."

Peter shifted his feet, fidgeting under Tony's grip. He wondered if he would be just as happy if he knew Peter hadn't made the choice. There were no new friends to choose over his family. He opened his mouth, ready to spill, then closed it again.

Tony didn't need to know. It wasn't a big deal.

"Yeah, I'm – I'm glad to be home, too," said Peter.

They hugged as the dead fish drifted further into the lake, the started their way back into the house, where they still had more fish business to take care of.

Tony scrubbed the fish bowl out at the kitchen sink. Peter dumped the pebbles back in, and very carefully stuck the grey, sparking castle in the middle, only for Tony to shoo him out of the way and repositioned it, slightly off center.

"She'll notice," Tony told him.

Next came the water, and last, was the fish.

Peter held up the plastic bag and looked at the new fish, the replacement.

It'd taken awhile to steal him from the pet store. Peter, with his Spidey mask on, broke the lock on the front door and simply walked in. That was the easy part. The tank that held the goldfish was huge, and once he found one that looked like a suitable replacement, it took him several minutes to catch him with the net.

He'd been soaking wet as he left a twenty-dollar bill by their cash register, then exited the pet store. Peter spent the entire drive to Tony's worrying the plastic bag with the fish inside would come untied, and he'd have a flopping, breathless fish on the floorboard of his car, among fast food wrappers and empty water bottles.

But that hadn't happened. The fish was fine, and after Peter untied the bag and emptied him into his new home, he swam around fast, alert, alive.

Satisfied, they took the fishbowl back into Morgan's bedroom, where Tony sat it on her desk, then quietly slipped back out into the hallway, unheard and unseen, like some kind of tooth fairy for goldfish.

Tony checked his watch. "Almost time to get up. Wanna get settled into your room? Catch some sleep? I'm gonna go whip up some breakfast."

Tony's hand was on his back, and it made him realize how much he missed that, too. He wasn't ready to lose that just for some sleep. Peter was too content to sleep.

"I'm not tired. I'll help you with breakfast."

"Passing up the opportunity for extra sleep?" asked Tony, with a raised eyebrow. He clapped him on his back, then pulled his arm around him, as they headed towards the kitchen. "You must've really missed me. That's good, though, you can tell me about your first year at MIT. I want to hear everything."

Peter lied.

He made up a fantasy version of his freshman year, one he thought that would make Tony proud, one where he wasn't miserable and lonely and dreaming of being here, at home, with people who loved him. In his stories acquaintances became friends. Bradley the third didn't exist. Peter didn't get kicked out of class for being twenty minutes late and miss a day of notes.

It was a fantasy, one he spun as they made enough food for a small army, and one Peter wasn't sure Tony completely bought. He didn't say anything, though, just listened.

"This is a lot of food," said Peter, looking at the omelets, the pancakes and waffles, sliced fruit, and eggs, made in three different ways. "Even for my appetite, this is a lot of food."

"Don't get used to it," said Tony. He wore an apron and wagged a mixing spoon at him. "We don't normally do this, but we're celebrating. One resurrected fish, and your homecoming."

As if on cue, at the mention of the goldfish, a high-pitched scream came from Morgan's bedroom. By the time Tony and Peter arrived at her door, she'd stopped screaming. She was standing on her bed, pointing at the fish bowl.

"An imposter ate Bruce!"

"What do you mean, honey," said Tony. "That's him."

"No it isn't!"

Tony looked at Morgan, who wore both a serious face and tears in her tears, then back at the fish. It was swimming happily, zigzagging in and out of the castle that didn't belong to him, completely clueless that he was an imposter fish, and everyone knew it. Peter wished he was lucky enough to have that kind of blissful ignorance.

Peter watched Tony's face crumble into something like regret, like shame. He gave a sigh and crossed the room to sit with her on the bed. He pulled her into his lap, and his eyes went soft as he looked at her.

"Listen Morguna," said Tony. "I'm really sorry, but last night, Bruce went to heaven."

Peter had no idea if kids her age knew what heaven meant or what it implied, but Morgan must have understood. Her face scrunched up, her eyes got wide, watery, as she started back up at Tony.

"So Peter went to the store on his way home from school and got another fish to take care of."

"I don't want some other fish," said Morgan. "I want Bruce."

"I know," said Tony. He held her closer, wrapped her up in his arms and squeezed her with a hug.

Morgan sniffed, wiped both her tears and her snot on Tony's shirt, then looked up at him. "I didn't tell him goodbye."

"We can have a funeral," said Tony. "And you can say goodbye."

She nodded. The tears in her eyes were mostly gone, and it was replaced by something else. Something that reminded Peter of Pepper.

"You shouldn't have tried to trick me."

"I know, I'm sorry," said Tony. "I didn't want you to be sad."

"I am sad," said Morgan. "But it's okay to be sad sometimes, it means you had something to love, dad, Dr. Seuss said so."

"Forgive me?"

Morgan nodded, then shrugged out of Tony's arms. She jumped off her bed, walked over to Peter and hugged his legs.

"I'm glad you're home," she told him. She looked up. "Thanks for the new fish, but I hate him. He's an imposter."

A lie. One that didn't belong. Just like Peter. Just like his stories.

"That's okay," said Peter. He picked her up, returned the hug, and together, they all went down to breakfast, to that mountain of food that waited for them.

* * *

On the day they said goodbye to Bruce the fish, everyone wore suits and dresses and ties and jackets. Peter didn't have any of those at the lake house, so his black suit was brand new. Tony ordered it just for this occasion, just like ordered a catering company to grill their lunch.

Peter stood between Rhodey and Happy on the dock, and in front of the real Bruce, who mourned the fish who was named after him. At the end of the dock, Morgan had one parent on each side of her as she dropped the grey, sparkling castle into the lake, to give her beloved pet's home back.

He imagined it sunk, slowly, to the bottom, with all the dirt and all the rocks, with all the bones of the other dead fish Morgan hadn't realized were replaced when she wasn't looking.

"Bye Bruce," said Morgan, as she straightened out, stood up. "You were a really good friend." She tugged on Tony's suit. "Dad… aren't you going to say a few words, about Bruce?"

Tony paused. "Uh, well, he was… He was a really great fish. He swam… really well, and now he's swimming in deeper waters."

Morgan seemed satisfied with his speech, she grabbed her dad's hand, and they all broke for lunch.

Peter made a plate, and found a lonely picnic table, under a tree and near the lake. He didn't think he'd be seen by anyone, but just minutes later, Tony found him.

"What does it mean if my seven-year-old is more emotionally mature than me?" he asked, as he sat down, and sat so close their shoulders bumped.

"That you're doing a good job?"

For a split second, Tony looked the way he usually did right before he was about to claim he had allergies, but then the lines in his face creased. He frowned. Concern replaced the fake allergies claim. "Alright, what's going on?"

Peter just shrugged, and stuff his mouth with his food, so he wouldn't have to answer.

"First you want to help me cook instead of sleeping, one of your favorite activities," said Tony. "Then I give you the perfect opportunity for sass and you hit me with sweet?"

Peter kept chewing his food, and Tony put his hand against his forehead.

"No fever melting your brain," said Tony. "So, what's the problem?"

He swallowed his food and was ready to cling onto his excuse that this wasn't a big deal, that his problems were actually really small when factoring in the universe, but the thing was, it was sort of hard to pretend any problem was too small sitting in the middle of an extravagant funeral Tony planned out for a dead goldfish.

"I was thinking," said Peter. He looked around, made sure nobody was coming. "Maybe I don't go back to MIT next year. Maybe I'll go to Caltech, with Ned."

Tony didn't say anything. He just stared, but Peter knew what he was thinking. Caltech was too far away, and more than that, it wasn't Tony's alma mater, or even a school they had discussed when they sat down and talked about colleges.

It was quiet. Wind blew through the tree branches above them. A duck flew in and landed on the lake.

"It's just… I don't really – I just don't belong at MIT."

"What? Of course you do," said Tony. The disbelief in his voice was overpowering, and comforting. Tony pushed on his shoulder. "You're one of the smartest people I know. What's this really about?"

Peter repeated it a second time, but this time, he added in everything Bradley the third said, that it wasn't just about being smart. It was about money and pedigree and class. Things Peter didn't have or particularly want.

"You're letting some punk get in your head," said Tony. "Not everyone at MIT is like that. Listen, Peter, it's just your freshman year. Everyone feels that way."

"You didn't."

"Kid, I'd barely hit puberty for my first year, you think I fit in with everyone?" asked Tony. "Next semester, it'll change. You just have to find your honey bear."

"My what?"

"Your Rhodey. Someone who gets into trouble with you, and when he doesn't, he's at least there with the bail money to get you out of trouble." Tony patted him on the shoulder. "You're gonna be okay."

Peter offered him a smile and diverted his eyes back to his food. Their conversation stopped once Rhodey and the real Bruce came and sat down at their table. That was something Peter could appreciate about Tony. He kept private things private, and for it was worth, did make him feel better, even if it was just from knowing he didn't have to pretend to be okay anymore, didn't have to lie.

* * *

Summer ended fast, just like Peter knew it would.

He stood in his empty dorm bags in hand, and sighed. He wanted to try getting a single, wanted to avoid getting paired up with someone as annoying as Bradley the third, but Tony had talked him out of it. He was insistent. Somehow, he'd guaranteed his new roommate would be better, that they'd get along.

It'd made Peter suspicious, and he had every right to be. Tony was a fixer. He'd fix what he could, but sometimes Peter feared his solutions.

With a sigh, he crossed the room and put his bags down, unzipped them, started the process of getting unpacked. He wasn't at it long before he looked up and saw someone at his door. Someone with bags, who took one step inside, and stared at Peter and the mess of clothes surrounding him.

"So," he said. "You're Spider-Man."

"What?" Peter shook his head. "No – I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You know Tony Stark," he told him. "There's this video on YouTube from a pet store's surveillance camera of Spider-Man stealing a goldfish. For Morgan, right?" He pointed to down towards Peter's shoes. "And your mask is hanging out of your bag."

Peter looked down, saw he was right and stuffed it back down, under his clothes, while he walked further into the room and sat down on the other, empty bed.

"How did you know I know Tony?" asked Peter.

"I'm Harley," he told him.

"Oh."

They stared at each other. It was the first time Peter had met him, but it wasn't his first time hearing about him. Tony had mentioned him a few times and had tried to get them met in the past. It never worked out. Schedules never lined up. When they visited the lake house, it was never at the same time.

Now that he thought about it, Tony had been bringing him up more and more the closer summer came to end. Stupid. Peter had been stupid to not see this one coming.

"I'm guessing Tony arranged this," said Peter. "Us being roommates."

"Probably," said Harley. "He's old and retired, he has nothing better to do than meddle in our lives." He leaned back on the bed, and it creaked under him. "He's kind of an asshole about it sometimes, though."

Peter nodded his agreement. It was true. He was a fixer, a meddler, but it went unspoken between the two of them that usually his fixes turned out to be okay. Chaotic. Destructive, but in the end, a beautiful mess. He wondered if that's what this new friendship would be, a stunning disaster, when another figure darkened their doorway.

"Hey Pete," Bradley the third had one hand on the door frame, the other in the pocket of his khaki shorts. "I didn't expect to see you this year. Decided to give it another go? Brave. Good for you." His eyes fell on Harley. "I'm Bradley Chambers, the third. Who are you?"

"Harley Keener, the only." It was said with narrow, calculating eyes, that stared Bradley down.

Silence fell, settled, and forced Bradley to make his exit, grumbling something about finding his new room.

Once he was gone, Harley looked back at Peter. "Where I'm from, we shoot assholes like that with potato guns."

Peter laughed. That place sounded nice, sounded, in a way, like Queens.

"We'd probably need something more sophisticated here," said Peter.

"We could make something," said Harley, with a shrug. "Tony says you're not bad in the workshop."

Peter looked around their dorm room. It was small, but it wasn't too small. With the right equipment, maybe Peter would actually use the credit card Tony made him carry around, they could turn the corner into a mini workshop, one that could create sophisticated weapons meant to prank, meant just for fun, well at least fun for the two of them.

He didn't have to wonder anymore. Peter knew. This would be a chaotic, destructive, stunning disaster.


End file.
